“Wife! You are to be Bertram Henshaw's wife!” he exclaimed. There was no mistaking the amazed incredulity on his face.
Billy caught her breath. The righteous indignation in her eyes fled, and a terrified appeal took its place.
“You don't mean that you didn't—know?” she faltered.
There was a moment's silence. A power quite outside herself kept Billy's eyes on Arkwright's face, and forced her to watch the change there from unbelief to belief, and from belief to set misery.
“No, I did not know,” said the man then, dully, as he turned, rested his arm on the mantel behind him, and half shielded his face with his hand.
Billy sank into a low chair. Her fingers fluttered nervously to her throat. Her piteous, beseeching eyes were on the broad back and bent head of the man before her.
“But I—I don't see how you could have helped—knowing,” she stammered at last. “I don't see how such a thing could have happened that you shouldn't know!”
“I've been trying to think, myself,” returned the man, still in a dull, emotionless voice.
“It's been so—so much a matter of course. I supposed everybody knew it,” maintained Billy.
“Perhaps that's just it—that it was—so much a matter of course,” rejoined the man. “You see, I know very few of your friends, anyway—who would be apt to mention it to me.”