She made a faint motion of assent.
“You do realize it? I’m still prepared to—to help you, if you should....” She made no answer, and he continued: “How do you expect to live—since you have chosen to drag in such considerations?”
“I don’t care how I live. I never wanted the money for myself.”
He raised a deprecating hand. “Oh, don’t—again! The woman I had meant to....” Suddenly, to her surprise, she saw a glitter of moisture on his lower lids. He applied his handkerchief to them, and the waft of scent checked her momentary impulse of compunction. That Cologne water! It called up picture after picture with a hideous precision. “Well, it was worth it,” she murmured doggedly.
Henry Prest restored his handkerchief to his pocket. He waited, glanced about the room, turned back to her.
“Oh, final!”
He bowed. “There is one thing more—which I should have mentioned if you had ever given me the opportunity of seeing you after—after last New Year’s day. Something I preferred not to commit to writing—”
“Yes?” she questioned indifferently.
“Your husband, you are positively convinced, had no idea ... that day ...?”