“I wanted to make—you—happy,” came miserably from behind the hands.
“And did you think I could be made happy that way—by your wretchedness?”
There was no answer.
“I’ve seen it coming for a long time,” he went on gently, “and I did not blame you. I could never have made you happy, and I knew it almost from the first. I wasn’t happy, either—because I couldn’t make you so. Perhaps now I—I shall be happier; who knows?” he asked, with a wan little smile.
Margaret sobbed. It was so like Bobby—to belittle his own grief, just to make it easier for her!
“You see, it was for only the work that you cared for me,” resumed the man after a minute. “You loved that, and you thought you loved me. But it was only the work all the time, dear. I understand that now. You see I watched you—and I watched him.”
“Him!” Margaret’s hands were down, and she was looking at Bobby with startled eyes.
“Yes. I used to think he loved you even then, but after the fire, and I heard your cry of ‘Frank’——”
Margaret sprang to her feet.
“Bobby, Bobby, you don’t know what you are saying,” she cried agitatedly. “Mr. Spencer does not love me, and he never loved me. Why, Bobby, he couldn’t! He even pleaded with me to marry another man.”