“Lord Stan—The monocle-man, as you call him.”
“Whew!” Bob whistled. “You went straight to headquarters, didn’t you?”
“He came up to me on the porch just after you had left, and—and—”
“It’s quite plain,” said Bob gently. “You couldn’t hold in. Don’t know as I ought to blame you much.”
“I wish you wouldn’t act like that,” she returned passionately. “Don’t you hate me?”
He looked at her from his superior height. “No. Now that I think of it, you only did the right and moral thing. After all”—he seemed to be speaking from the hammer-thrower’s high judicial plane—“it was your duty to tell.”
“Duty!” she shot back at him. “I didn’t do it for that, or”—with sudden scorn—“because it was the moral thing. I did it because—because you—you had hurt me and—and I wanted to hurt you the worst way—the very worst way I could—”
“Well, that sounds very human,” replied Bob soothingly. “It’s the old law. Eye for an eye! Tit for tat! Quid pro quo!” That hammer-thrower was getting him into the Latin habit.
“You must not speak like that. You must hate me—despise me—I betrayed you—betrayed—”
Bob looked at her sympathetically. She really was suffering. “Oh, no, you didn’t. You only thought you did,” he said.