“Yes, a lot,” June assented. A broken rose-bud lay on the sofa beside her. She picked it up and began to open its leaves.
“And who’d have supposed then that Rosamund was going to live in England, and some day be Lady Rosamund?” There was a slight pause, and he added in a lower voice, as if speaking to himself: “Who’d have supposed any of the things were going to happen that did?”
June pressed apart the rose petals in silence.
“Who’d have supposed I would have done the things that I have done?” he said, speaking in the same low voice, but now it was suddenly full of significance.
He was looking directly at her. His eyes called hers, and with the rose-bud still in her hand, she looked into them for a long motionless moment. It was a look of revelation. He saw her will, like a trapped bird, fluttering and struggling in his grasp.
“You’re just the same, June,” he said on a rising breath.
“No, no,” she faltered, “I’ve changed in every way. You don’t know how I’ve changed. I’m quite a different person.”
“But you haven’t lost faith in me?” he said, leaning nearer to her.
She drew back, pressing her shoulders against the sofa, and gazing at him with a sort of suspended apprehension. He did not seem to notice her shrinking and went on impetuously:
“You understand if there were mistakes and errors and—and—and—miserable misunderstandings, that I was led into them. I was a blind fool. Mercedes never cared for me. She told me so three months after we were married. She left me of her own free will. She was glad to go, and I—well, I’ll tell you the truth, June—I wasn’t sorry.”