"You speak as though I had hushed up something in my own life. Can't you see the difference? He was convicted under another name; it was a thing nobody knew but ourselves; nobody need ever have known. Or so I thought," he ended in a wretched voice.
But Moya was outwardly unmoved.
"All the more reason why you should have told me, and trusted me," she insisted.
"God knows I thought of it! But I knew the difference it would make. And I was right!"
It was his turn to be bitter, and Moya's to regain complete control.
"So you think it's that that makes the difference now?"
"Of course it is."
"Would you believe me if I assured you it was not?"
"No; you might think so; but I know."
"You know singularly little about women," said Moya after a pause.