"If you weren't sure of it you wouldn't ask me," he laughed. "Why didn't you want to see me?"
"I didn't say I didn't want to see you. I merely suggested that I didn't think it wise to."
"Why not?"
"You might not have understood my point of view. You mayn't now. I think I was a trifle bewildered over there. Now I'm clear again," She paused, her gaze focusing quickly, "O John, what a mess you've made of my ideals!"
"I?" he muttered stupidly, but he knew what she meant. "What have I to do with your ideals, Olga?"
"Nothing—except that you gave them birth and then destroyed them.
It's infanticide—nothing less," she said slowly.
He groped for a word, stammered and was silent.
She examined him curiously, then smiled.
"Silence? Confession!"
"I've nothing to confess." And then desperately. "Appearances are—were against us. If you've spoken of that—you've done a great mischief—an irreparable wrong—to—to Hermia."