“How do you know?” she asked, in a broken voice. “What do you know?”
“Miss Weir told me—of her early marriage to Mr. Temple.”
“And you knew this and never told me!” cried May. “You let me live on in my—fool’s happiness—you let me—”
But here her voice broke; she covered her face with her hand; a moan broke from, her parched lips.
“I could not bear to disturb your happiness,” said Webster, gently. “I was distressed above measure when this strange knowledge came to me. I did not know how to act, and last night when I was at Pembridge Terrace—”
“I will never go there again!” broke in May, passionately. “I will never see anyone again that I have known. You must forget this meeting, Mr. Webster; you must never tell anyone that you have seen me. Will you promise me this?”
“Only on one condition—that you will try to bear this bitter blow with fortitude—otherwise it is my duty—”
“How can I bear it?” moaned the unhappy girl. “He—was everything to me—I believed he loved me—and now, and now—”
“There is no blame to be attached to you. It is a most painful and trying position, and I do not wonder at you shrinking back from it, yet I am sure that both my aunts—”