"Sit down, Marjorie," he answered; "I didn't mean to say that."
"But you said it," she replied. "Ah! my ears are very keen, and there was something in your voice which had meaning. William, what is it? What is it?"
"Nothing," he answered in a deep, decisive voice.
But the voice brought no conviction to her ears. She had detected, or thought she had detected, the note of an inner knowledge when he had first spoken. She crossed the room with rapid strides and laid her white hand upon his shoulder.
"You've got to tell me," she said imperiously. And her touch thrilled him through and through with an exquisite agony and an exquisite joy.
"It's nothing," he repeated.
Now there was less conviction than ever in his voice. She laughed hysterically. "William," she said, "I know you so well, you can't hide anything from me. There's something you can tell me. Whatever it may be, good or bad, you've just got to tell me."
At that he looked up at her, and his face, she saw, was drawn and frightened.
"Marjorie," he said, "don't let any words of mine persuade you into any belief. Since you ask me I must say what I have got to say. But mind you, I am in no way convinced myself that what I am going to tell you is more than mere idle supposition."
"Tell me," she whispered, and her voice hissed like escaping steam.