"There was never one like Robert," he said, gratitude a pain. "Theodora, I never wondered that you loved him."
She stirred, the faint, familiar sweetness of sandalwood and rose was shaken from her laces by the movement; wide and very soft were the eyes she lifted to his.
"I did not love him, as you meant. John, John, you were wrong."
The conservatory wavered before his gaze; he rose impetuously and she with him.
"Wrong? Then—"
"You, John. Oh, could you not tell a girl's playmate from her lover? Robert read the truth; and I believe he was glad. John—"
Slowly, almost fearfully, he drew her to his arms.
"Wrong! Oh, Theo, it has all been wrong, and the fault mine! That out of it all should come to-day, my dear, my dear."
Presently she slipped from him, starrily radiant, leaving her hands in his as she looked up.
"Do you know how I found courage to tell you this, John?"