"You mean you—you don't want me, Peter?"
"Want you?" he cried hoarsely. "I'd go through hell to get you. I'd stay mole-blind the rest of my life to get you! Want you?"
He stepped toward her with his hands outstretched as if to seize her. In spite of herself, she shrank away.
"You see," he ran on. "What difference does it make if I want you? You belong to another. You belong to Covington. You have n't anything to do with yourself any more. You have n't yourself to give. You're his."
With her hand above her eyes as if to ward off his blows, she gasped:—
"You must n't say such things, Peter."
"I'm only telling the truth, and there's no harm in that. I 'm telling you what you have n't dared tell yourself."
"Things I mustn't tell myself!" she cried. "Things I must n't hear."
"What I don't understand," he said, "is why Covington did n't tell you all this himself. He must have known."
"He knew nothing," she broke in. "I was a mere incident in his life. We met in Paris quite by accident when he happened to have an idle week. He was alone and I was alone, and he saved me from a disagreeable situation. Then, because he still had nothing in particular to do and I had nothing in particular to do, he suggested this further arrangement. We were each considering nothing but our own comfort. We wanted nothing more. It was to escape just such complications as this—to escape responsibility, as I told you—that we—we married. He was only a boy, Peter, and knew no better. But I was a woman, and should have known. And I came to know! That was my punishment."