“Yes, yes! You've said all this before, and I have listened to you when I should have reminded you that he is my husband,” she said impatiently.
“By Heaven, I don't see how you can love him!” he cried boldly. “Sometimes I wonder if you do love him. He is as selfish, as unfeeling as oh, there's no word for it. Why, in the name of God, did you ever marry such a man? You couldn't have loved him.” Something in her expression brought him up sharply. Her eyes had narrowed; they had the look of a wary, hunted thing that has been driven into a corner. He stared. “Forgive me, Yvonne. I—I———”
“You don't know what you are saying,” she panted. “Are you accusing me?”
“No, no! What a coward, what a dog I am!” he cried abjectly.
A queer little smile stole into her face. It was even more baffling than the expression it displaced.
“I am your friend,” she said slowly. “Is this the way to reward me?”
He dropped to his knees and covered her hands with kisses, mumbling his plea for forgiveness.
“I am so terribly unhappy,” he said over and over again. “I'd leave this house to-night if it were not that I can't bear the thought of leaving you, Yvonne. I adore you. You are everything in the world to me. I———”
“Get up!” she cried out sharply. He lifted his eyes in dumb wonder and adoration, but not in time to catch the look of triumph that swept across her face.
“You will forgive me?” he cried, coming to his feet. “I—I couldn't help saying it. It was wrong—wrong! But you will forgive me, Yvonne?”