She had lowered her head again, and sat desolately staring at the floor. With the little wood-fire playing on the hearth, and this honest kindly man looking down at her, how safe and homelike the room seemed! Yet her real self was not in it at all, but blown about on a lonely wind of anguish, outside in the night. And so it would always be, she supposed.
“Won’t you tell me exactly what there is against him?” she heard Landers repeat.
The answer choked in her throat. Finally she brought out: “Oh, I don’t know ... women ... the usual thing.... He’s light....”
“But is it all just hearsay? Or have you proof—proof of any one particular rotten thing?”
“Isn’t his giving up and going away sufficient proof?”
“Not if he comes back now when she sends for him.”
The words shot through her like a stab. “Oh, but she mustn’t—she can’t!”
“You’re fairly sure he will come if she does?”
Kate Clephane put up her hands and pressed them against her ears. She could not bear to hear another question. What had been the use of coming to Fred Landers? He had no help to give her, and his insight had only served to crystallize her hazy terrors. She rose slowly from her armchair and held out her hand with a struggling smile.
“You’re right. I suppose there’s nothing more to do.”