As she was looking inquiringly at me, I said, “No.”
“It was very strange. For the first few weeks after the divorce—no, not the divorce—but the decree—for it isn’t a divorce yet, thank God!—for the first weeks I was happy—or thought I was. I went early and late. I had never been so gay. I acted like a girl just launched in society. I was in ecstasies over my freedom. Do you mind, dear? Does it hurt you for me to say these things?”
“No—no,” said I. “Go on.”
“How queer you are! But I suppose you are dazed, poor dear. Never mind! When I am better—stronger, I’ll soon convince you.” And she nodded and smiled at me. “Poor dear! How cruel I have been!”
“Yes—we’ll wait till you are stronger,” stammered I, making a move to rise.
“But I must tell you how it came about,” she said, detaining me. “All of a sudden—when I was at my gayest—I began to feel strange and sad—to dislike everyone and everything about me.”
“It was the illness working in you,” said I.
She gave the smile of gentle tolerance with which she received my attempts at humor when she was in an amiable mood. “How like you that is! But it wasn’t the illness at all. It was my inmost heart striving to force open its door and reveal its secret. Do be a little romantic, this once, dear.”
“Well—and then?”
“Then—a paragraph in one of the society papers. Some one sent it to me anonymously. Was it you, dear?—and did you do it to make me jealous?”