Van Duyn was not sure that the emotion which he felt was pity for her or pity for himself, but he looked away, his face reddening uncomfortably, and when he spoke his voice was lowered.
“I heard the story,” he said with crafty deliberateness, “at the Club. I got up and left the room.”
“Was—was Mr. Gallatin there?”
“No—not there?” he muttered. “He came in as I left. You know it wouldn’t have been possible for me to stay.”
“What are they saying, Coley?” she gasped, seeking in one breath to plumb the whole depth of her humiliation. “You must tell me. Do you mean that they’re saying—that—that Mr. Gallatin and I—were—?” she couldn’t finish, and he made no effort to help her, for her troubled face and every word that she uttered went further to confirm his suspicions and increase his misery.
“Do you believe that?” she whispered again. “Do you?” And then, as he refused to turn his head or reply, “Oh, how dreadful of you!”
She put spurs to her horse and before he was well aware of it was vanishing among the trees. His animal was unequal to the task he set for it, for he lost sight of her, found her again in the distance and thundered after, breathing heavily and perspiring at every pore, hating himself for his suspicions, and filled with terror at the thought of losing her. Never had he been so mad for the possession of her as now, and floundered helplessly on like an untrained dog in pursuit of a wounded bird. But he couldn’t catch up with her. And when, later, he stopped at the Loring house, she refused to see him.