For a minute longer she let him stew in his kettle, then lifted him out scrupulously, at the end of a very long fork, and dropped him steaming, as if he had been a lump of unsavory fat.
“Yes, I forgive you,” she said, very, very distantly. “You probably weren’t thinking.”
If that was forgiveness! But he did not know––even Claire did not know then––how deeply he had wounded Marion with his rude and accusing speech,––as if he had called a jeering crowd to look at the little flower that blooms but once, and very secretly, in a woman’s heart. Forgive him? She never would forgive him for that blundering outburst, which was indeed the more unforgivable because he did not seriously mean, and certainly did not believe, the thing he said.
“Thank you, Marion dear!” said Claire softly.
At that Marion suddenly rushed to Claire, and knelt by her chair. She had her own faults to be forgiven.
“I’ve been very foolish!” she cried. “I’ve caused you pain and humiliation. I’m sorry. Please forgive me!”
So they cried it out in each other’s arms, while Huntington rolled a cigarette, took one whiff of it, and tossed it into the fire. It required a stronger narcotic than tobacco to soothe his fevered spirits. After a while he whirled around and faced the two women.
“See here, Marion!” he said. “It’s all our fault for not telling you about Haig. But we didn’t want to annoy you with our troubles, and we never imagined you’d stumble on to him. Do you know now what this is all about?”
She spared him the answer that she had heard something on that point the day of the shooting.