When the heart is too full for words, surely they are best left untried. Another thought came to him—a painful thought—for he moved uneasily, and turned red to the eyes, or rather, to the puckered brow above them.
“I must tell you,” he said presently; “it is only right, and after you have heard you must finally decide, for I will not begin our engagement by keeping back anything from you whom I worship. Only you will not ask for names.”
She lifted her head, as though in remonstrance, then reflecting that it is always well to know a man’s secrets, checked herself. Also she was curious. What could this saint of a Rupert have done that was wrong?
“Once,” he continued, slowly and painfully, “I committed a great sin—a love affair—a married woman. She is dead; it is all over, and, thank God! I have nothing more to confess to you.”
Edith tried to appear grieved, but in reality, she was so intensely interested—so astonished, too, that any woman could have betrayed Rupert into an affaire galante—that to a dispassionate observer her effort might have seemed unsuccessful.
“I don’t want to preach,” she said. “I have been told that men are very different from what they expect us to be. Still, it was good of you to tell me, and there is no more to say, is there, except—” and she clasped her hands and looked up at him—“Oh, Rupert! I do hope that it was not—lately—for I thought—I thought—”
“Great Heavens!” he said, aghast; “why, it was when I was a boy, years and years ago.”
“Oh!” she answered, “that makes it better, doesn’t it?”
“It makes it less dreadful, perhaps,” he said, “for I lost my reason almost, and did not understand.”
“Well, who am I that I should judge you, Rupert? Let us never speak of it again.”