"Yes."
Fletcher received the information in silence, and several seconds dragged away while he digested it. She even began to wonder if he meant to say anything further, almost expecting him to get up and stalk away, too furious for speech.
But at length, very unexpectedly and very quietly, he spoke.
"Would it be of any use for me to protest my innocence?"
She did not know how to answer him.
He proceeded with scarcely a pause:
"It seems to me that my guilt has been taken for granted in such a fashion that any attempt on my part to clear myself would be so much wasted effort. It simply remains for you to pass sentence."
She lifted her head for the first time, startled out of all composure. His cool treatment of the matter was more disconcerting than any vehement protestations. It was almost as though he acknowledged the offence and swept it aside with the same breath as of no account. Yet it was incredible, this view of the case. There must be some explanation. He would never dare to insult her thus.
Impulsively she rose, inaction becoming unendurable. He stood up instantly, and they faced one another in the weird blue twilight.
"I think I have misunderstood you!" she said breathlessly, and there stopped dead, for something—something in his face arrested her.