“Why not? He will be another man out in Brazil—and he can live there like a gentleman on what he will have left—so Pawson thinks.”
“Because I love him dearly—and when he is gone I have nobody left,” she answered in a hopeless tone.
Harry hesitated, then he asked: “And so what Uncle George told me about Mr. Willits is true?”
Kate looked at him furtively—as if afraid to read his thoughts and for reply bowed her head in assent.
“Didn't he love you enough?” There was a certain reproach in his tone, as if no one could love this woman enough to satisfy her.
“Yes.”
“What was the matter then? Was it—” He stopped—his eagerness had led him onto dangerous, if not discourteous, grounds. “No, you needn't answer—forgive me for asking—I had no right. I am not myself, Kate—I didn't mean to—”
“Yes, I'll tell you. I told Uncle George. I didn't like him well enough—that's all.” All this time she was looking him calmly in the face. If she had done anything to be ashamed of she did not intend to conceal it from her former lover.
“And will Uncle George take his place now that he's gone? Do you ever know your own heart, Kate?” There was no bitterness in his question. Her frankness had disarmed him of that. It was more in the nature of an inquiry, as if he was probing for something on which he could build a hope.
For a brief instant she made no answer; then she said slowly and with a certain positiveness: