“If I haven’t got any money!” he ejaculated stupidly.
“No! Oh, yes, I know, I said I loved money.” The rich red came back to her face in a flood. “But I didn’t mean—And it’s just as much of a test and an opportunity when you don’t have money—more so, if anything. I didn’t mean it—that way. I never thought of—of how you might take it—as if I wanted it. I don’t. Indeed, I don’t! Oh, can’t you—understand?”
“Understand! Good Heavens!” Mr. Smith threw up both his hands. “And I thought I’d given myself away! Miss Maggie.” He came to her and stood close, but he did not offer to touch her. “I thought, after I’d said what I did about—about those twenty millions that you understood—that you knew I was—Stanley Fulton himself.”
“That you were—who?” Miss Maggie stood motionless, her eyes looking straight into his, amazed incredulous.
“Stanley Fulton. I am Stanley Fulton. My God! Maggie, don’t look at me like that. I thought—I had told you. Indeed, I did!”
She was backing away now, slowly, step by step. Anger, almost loathing, had taken the place of the amazement and incredulity in her eyes.
“And you are Mr. Fulton?”
“Yes, yes! But—”
“And you’ve been here all these months—yes, years—under a false name, pretending to be what you weren’t—talking to us, eating at our tables, winning our confidence, letting us talk to you about yourself, even pretending that—Oh, how could you?” Her voice broke.
“Maggie, dearest,” he begged, springing toward her, “if you’ll only let me—”