"Why—do you think that I'm going to let you trip him the way you tripped me? No. I'm going to stay right here until that man arrives, and I'm going to tell him that it wasn't my fault. You alone were to blame."
She listened blankly, staring at him in a bewildered, dazed sort of way. Her face was white as death, and her hands twisted convulsively. Slowly, with a half-stifled sob, she cried:
"Then you are going to let him know?" she said slowly. "You're not going to give me a single, solitary chance?"
The plaintive tone in her voice touched him. He hated such scenes, and would willingly have overlooked anything to avoid one. But there was a limit to a man's patience. Perhaps, however, he had been a bit brutal. He did not trust himself to look up, but his voice was less harsh as he replied:
"I'll give you every chance that you deserve when he knows. Then he can do as he pleases, but there must be no more deception, that's flat."
Approaching the chair in which he sat, she laid a hand on his shoulder. Gently, she said:
"Then you must let me tell him."
Brockton turned away impatiently. She sank down on her knees beside him.
