“I mean that there was another woman.” Anne came close to her, with the same white vehement face as she had shown during their nocturnal talk at Rio.
Kate’s heart stood still. “Another woman?”
“Yes. And you made me feel that you’d always suspected it.”
“No, dear ... really....”
“You didn’t?” She saw the terrible flame of hope rekindling in Anne’s eyes.
“Not—not about any one in particular. But of course, with a man ... a man like that....” (Should she go on, or should she stop?)
Anne was upon her with a cry. “Mother, what kind of a man?”
Fool that she was, not to have foreseen the consequences of such a slip! She sat before her daughter like a criminal under cross-examination, feeling that whatever word she chose would fatally lead her deeper into the slough of avowal.
Anne repeated her question with insistence. “You knew him before I did,” she added.
“Yes; but it’s so long ago.”