"Don't!" she murmured—"we must be good friends—good friends—do you understand?"
"Forgive me," was his tactful reply. He led her to the corner of the
lounge and with fresh courage covered her hand firmly with his own.
"See—I am sensible," he smiled—"we understand each other, I think.
Tell me what has happened."
"Sam," she murmured faintly, freeing her hand—"Sam has dared to treat me like—like a child."
"You! I don't believe it—you? Nonsense, dear friend."
"You must help me," she returned in a vain effort to keep back the tears.
"Has he been brutal to you?—jealous?—impossible!" and a certain query gleamed in his eyes.
"Yes, brutal enough. I never believed him capable of it."
"I believe you, but it seems strange—psychologically impossible.
Why, he's not that kind of a man."
Alice slipped her hand beneath a cushion, drew forth her husband's note and gave it to him.
"Read that," she said, gazing doggedly into the fire, her chin in her hands.