“I've been neglecting her, ignoring her, humiliating her, if you will force me to say it,” he said firmly. “Good Lord, if anyone had told me three months ago that I'd ever be guilty of giving Lydia an instant's pain, I'd—I'd———”
“You would do what?”
“Don't laugh at me, Yvonne,” he cried miserably.
She became serious at once. “Do you still love her?”
“Yes! Yes!” he shouted, as if there was some necessity for convincing himself as well as his listener.
“And she loves you?”
“I—I—certainly! At least I think she does,” he floundered. His forehead was moist and cold.
“Then why this sudden misgiving, this feeling of doubt, this self-abasement?”
“I don't understand it myself,” he said rather bleakly. “I—I give you my word, I don't know what has come over me. I'm not as I used to be. I'm———”
She laughed softly. “I'm afraid you are seeing too much of your poor stepmother,” she said.