"His wife!"
"No—not that. Merely Mrs. Covington."
"I don't understand. You don't mean you're not his wife!" He checked himself abruptly.
"We were married in Paris," she hastened to explain. "But—but we agreed the marriage was to be only a form. He was to come down here with me as a compagnon de voyage. He wished only to give me the protection of his name, and that—that was all I wished. It was not until I met you, Peter, that I realized what I had done."
"It was not until then you realized that you really loved him?"
"Not until then," she moaned.
"But, knowing that, you allowed me to talk as I did; to hope—"
"Peter—dear Peter!" she broke in. "It was not then. It was only after I knew he had gone out of my life forever that I allowed that. You see, he has gone. He has gone to England, and from there he is going home. You know what he is going for. He is never coming back. So it is as if he died, isn't it? I allowed you to talk because I knew you were telling the truth. And I did not promise much. When you asked me never to go from you, all I said was that I 'd try. You remember that? And I have tried, and I was going to keep on trying—ever so hard. I had ruined my own life and his life, and—and I did n't want to hurt you any more. I wanted to do what I could to undo some of the harm I'd already done. I thought that perhaps if we went on like this long enough, I might forget a little of the past and look forward only to the future. Some day I meant to tell you. You know that, Peter. You know I would n't be dishonest with you." She was talking hysterically, anxious only to relieve the tenseness of his lips. She was not sure that he heard her at all. He was looking at her, but with curious detachment, as if he were at a play.
"Peter—say something!" she begged.
"It's extraordinary that I should ever have dared hope you were for me," he said.