“You’ve got to tell me the truth.” His voice was stern—implacable. “Did West ask you to leave me, and go away with him?”
“Donald—dear—don’t!” she cried wildly. “Let me explain!”
“Answer me!” he demanded angrily.
“Yes.” The word was scarcely audible through her sobs.
Donald passed his hand unsteadily across his eyes and turned away. It seemed unbelievable. West—his bosom friend—the man he would have trusted with his life. “The scoundrel! And I trusted him so!” he groaned, then looked again at his wife. “Did you agree to go?” he demanded.
“I did not know what I was doing—I was mad. Oh, Donald—forgive me—forgive me!” She put her hand on his arm, the tears streaming down her face.
“Did you agree to go?” His voice was even harder and more peremptory.
“Yes,” she whispered, “I did.”
The bitterness of it all almost overcame him. He loved her very deeply. “How could you?” he moaned. “How could you?”
She saw his momentary weakness, and, woman-like, took quick advantage of it. “Donald,” she cried, through her tears, “Donald! Forgive me! I agreed in a moment of madness. I have tried so hard, all these months, to be worthy of you—of your love. Can’t you believe me?”