She frowned a little. "It doesn't matter, does it? Won't you tell me what has happened?"
He hesitated momentarily; then; "Yes, I will tell you," he said.
"Bertrand is leaving to-morrow—for good."
He felt her stiffen against his arm, and for the first time he noticed her pallor and the unusual steadfastness of her eyes. He realized that she was putting strong restraint upon herself, and the fact made her strangely unfamiliar to him. He was accustomed to vivid speech and impetuous action. He scarcely knew her in this mood, although he recognized that he had seen it at least once before.
"Why?" Her lips scarcely moved as they asked the question. Her eyes never left his face.
He drew her to the writing-table on which his cheque-book still lay open at the place whence a cheque had been abstracted with its counterfoil.
"Sit down," he said, "and I will tell you."
She sat down in silence.
He knelt beside her as he had knelt on their wedding-night, and took her cold hands into his own.
"I think you know," he said quietly, "that I have always trusted Bertrand implicitly."
"You trust everyone," she said, with a small, aloof smile, as if she were trying to appear courteous while her thoughts were elsewhere.