“I was in the other room,” said Lewisham in a voice full of emotion. “Everything was so quiet, I was afraid—I did not know what had happened. Dear—Ethel dear. Is it all right?”
She sat up quickly and scrutinised his face. “Oh! let me tell you,” she wailed. “Do let me tell you. It’s nothing. It’s nothing. You wouldn’t hear me. You wouldn’t hear me. It wasn’t fair—before you had heard me....”
His arms tightened about her. “Dear,” he said, “I knew it was nothing. I knew. I knew.”
She spoke in sobbing sentences. “It was so simple. Mr. Baynes ... something in his manner ... I knew he might be silly ... Only I did so want to help you.” She paused. Just for one instant she saw one untenable indiscretion as it were in a lightning flash. A chance meeting it was, a “silly” thing or so said, a panic, retreat. She would have told it—had she known how. But she could not do it. She hesitated. She abolished it—untold. She went on: “And then, I thought he had sent the roses and I was frightened ... I was frightened.”
“Dear one,” said Lewisham. “Dear one! I have been cruel to you. I have been unjust. I understand. I do understand. Forgive me. Dearest—forgive me.”
“I did so want to do something for you. It was all I could do—that little money. And then you were angry. I thought you didn’t love me any more because I did not understand your work.... And that Miss Heydinger—Oh! it was hard.”
“Dear one,” said Lewisham, “I do not care your little finger for Miss Heydinger.”
“I know how I hamper you. But if you will help me. Oh! I would work, I would study. I would do all I could to understand.”
“Dear,” whispered Lewisham. “Dear”
“And to have her—”