“Why, Bobby, what—what makes you say such a dreadful thing,” cried the girl, reaching blindly out for some support that would not fail. “As if—I didn’t know my own mind!”
Bobby was silent. When he spoke again his voice shook a little.
“I will tell you what makes me say it. For some time I’ve suspected it—that you did not love me; but after the fire I—I knew it.”
“You knew it!”
“Yes. When a girl loves a man, and that man has come back almost from the dead, she goes to him first—if she loves him. When Frank Spencer and I were brought into the hall down-stairs that Wednesday morning, the jar or something brought back my senses for a moment, just long enough for me to hear your cry of ‘Frank,’ and to see you hurry to his side.”
Margaret caught her breath sharply. Her face grew white.
“But, Bobby, you—you were unconscious, I supposed,” she stammered faintly. “I didn’t think you could answer me if—if I did go to you.”
“But you did not—come—to—see.” The words were spoken gently, tenderly, sorrowfully.
Margaret gave a low cry and covered her face with her hands. A look that was almost relief came to the man’s face.
“There,” he sighed. “Now you admit it. We can talk sensibly and reasonably. Margaret, why have you tried to keep it up all these weeks, when it was just killing you?”