"It is not true," she said, passionately. "It is false."
"What is false?" he demanded, quietly. "That you have had opportunities for love?"
She did not reply. Her lips were trembling, and her hand played nervously with the ribbon on her muff.
Suddenly she looked up.
"When I left you," she said, slowly, "I went with the opera troupe abroad. For several years I was very successful, and I believed it would end well. I was given a leading part. Then one winter, when we were in Paris, I was taken ill. It was pneumonia. I was very ill, and the pain was frightful. They thought it would go to my heart. But when I grew better the troupe went on. I was left at the hotel, ill and alone—except for one friend—an Englishman—"
He interrupted her harshly.
"You have made a mistake," he said, and his voice was dull and lifeless. "I have no right to know your story. You are not of my parish—nor am I your confessor."
She flinched, but went on steadily, though her tones drooped.
"He had followed me for a long time. He loved me—or thought he did. When I was deserted by the troupe he stayed with me. He paid my bills and brought me back to life. I grew strong again, but—my voice was gone."
She paused as if in pain.