"Well, never mind about me. But now, you, yourself. Didn't I tell you to go to your room and rest?"
She was pale, the corners of her mouth were drawn, her eyes were duller. Neither had she slept. She also suffered, even now. Yet her courage matched his own. She smiled.
"It makes me crawl, all the way through, to see a woman hurt that way. Why did you try to climb out of that window? You weren't walking in your sleep."
"I was trying to get away from you. I thought you were coming. I thought I heard you—at the door." She looked him full in the face, searching it for sign of guilt, of confusion. "Was it not enough?" she added.
The frown on his face only deepened. "That was not true," said he. "I never came to your door. It was Sally you heard. I'll confess—I sent her, to get away those—those clothes you saw. I didn't want—you to see them."
"I believe you!" she said, low, as if she spoke to herself. "Yes,
I understand now."
"Why don't you say I'm lying to you?"
"Because you are not lying. Because you tell me the truth, and I know it. I was mistaken."
"How do you know? Why forgive me? I don't want you to forgive me.
You don't understand the madness—"
"What hope could there be in a particular madness such as that?" He could see her eyes turned on him steadily. He turned away, sighing.