She looked at him gravely. “No,” she said, “you haven’t guessed. I don’t think you’ve guessed; and when I think how I misjudged you, how harsh I was, I want you to see it. It is almost your right to see it.” Her hand went to her throat, but he shook his head.
“It pleases me,” he said, “to be made a confidant, but I take the will for the deed. If there is anything more you might wish that I should say, imagine that I have said it—congratulations, good wishes, and that sort of thing; you understand.”
He had reached the door, but again she called him back. She paused, with her hand on the piano, and struggled for her words. “Carty,” she said, “once I told you that it was all off, that I never could marry you—that I should never marry any one. You’re glad now, aren’t you? You see it is best?”
“Would it make you happier if I said so?” he replied.
“I want to know the truth,” she said.
“I am afraid the truth would only hurt you,” he answered.
“I want the truth,” she said again.
“It is soon told,” he said; “there is nothing new to tell.”
“What do you mean?” she whispered.