“Because he loved you.”
Julia seemed to stand there irrationally, convinced by the sound of Florence Essington’s voice—by just the weight of its own deep, passionate conviction.
“Then why couldn’t he have told me?” the girl murmured forlornly. “I would have believed him! Why couldn’t he trust me!”
The last words caught a little bitter echo in the woman’s heart. She silenced it. She took Julia by the shoulders, who had slid to the floor, half kneeling, half sitting, the tears slipping down her cheeks.
“Even if you love him,” she cried, “isn’t he human? Can’t you forgive him that much? He will forgive you—men forgive more in women!”
Julia’s hands held the folds of her gown. “But what can I do?” she implored. She hung on the other’s words with a passionate dependence.
Florence, with an impulse, took the face between her hands.
“Be sure you want him more than anything else,” she murmured.
The head inclined faintly. The wide eyes still held hers with their piteous stare and falling tears.
“Go to him,” Florence whispered. She felt the girl trembling.