"I—have wronged—you!" She spoke the words slowly, still looking him in the eyes.
He made an abrupt gesture as of holding back some inner force that strongly urged him. "I am not one of your persecutors," he said. "I have never in my life presumed to judge you—far less condemn you."
His voice vibrated as though some emotion fought fiercely for the mastery. They stood facing each other in what might have been open antagonism but for that deep quiver in the man's voice.
Stella spoke after the lapse of seconds. She had begun to tremble.
"Then why—why did you let me think so? Why did you always stand aloof?"
There was a tremor in her voice also, but her eyes were shining with the light half-eager, half-anxious, of one who seeks for buried treasure.
Monck's answer was pitched very low. It was as if the soul of him gave utterance to the words. "It is my nature to stand aloof. I was waiting."
"Waiting?" Her two hands gripped suddenly hard upon her fan, but still her shining eyes did not flinch from his. Still with a quivering heart she searched.
Almost in a whisper came his reply. "I was waiting—till my turn should come."
"Ah!" The fan snapped between her hands; she cast it from her with a movement that was almost violent.