Katharine forgot his contrition, and forgot to reassure him in the anxiety caused her by the mere suspicion that he might know the truth. She sat staring at him in silence for several seconds, wondering what he knew. It was more than he could bear. He bent still nearer to her, from the edge of his chair, and his hands moved a little towards her, beseechingly, in as near an approach to an eloquent gesture as such a man could have used.
“Please don’t be angry with me!” he said.
“Oh, no!” she answered, in an odd voice, with a little start. “I was only thinking—”
He did not understand, and he moved backward into his chair suddenly, crossed one knee over the other with an impatient jerk, and looked away from her.
“What a brute I am!” he exclaimed, in a barely audible tone.
Katharine paid no attention to this self-condemnation. Her eyes rested thoughtfully on his face, and she seemed to be reflecting. She was examining her own conscience, trying to find out how far her actions could have brought about the state of things she saw. A woman who loves one man with all her heart has small pity for any other, though she may know that she ought to feel pity and to show it. But she does not therefore lose her sense of justice.
“Will you tell me one thing, Mr. Wingfield? Will you answer me one question?” she asked, at last.
He turned to her quickly again, with a look of surprise. She was out of tune with him, so to say, and her words and tone jarred strongly upon his own mood.
“Certainly,” he answered, much more coldly than he had spoken yet. “I’ll try and answer any question you ask me.”
“Do you really and truly feel that I’ve encouraged you, as though I meant anything?” she asked, slowly.