His voice was hoarse, but it was even, and Violet Wayne regarded him with dispassionate interest. Tony, it seemed, had risen in his desperation, and his face was, as she had never seen it, set and almost grim.
“Then,” she said quietly, “you have no excuse to make—nothing to urge in extenuation?”
“No. It is all true. There was only my love for you—and you must feel that a humiliation now.”
Violet Wayne made a little gesture of weariness. “Tony,” she said, “I don’t quite catch your meaning, and we must speak plainly to-night.”
“Well,” said the man, in a voice that was curiously expressionless, “you heard Miss Harding’s story. She was very fair—about Lucy Davidson—but you can realize how difficult it is for me to go into that?”
A trace of color crept into Violet Wayne’s face, but her eyes were fixed upon her companion as she said slowly, “Still, I think it is necessary.”
“Then I gave the girl a brooch—and once or twice talked nonsense with her—but it went no further. I can only give you my word for that—and nobody would blame you if you could not credit it. Her father did not, and I could not let you hear the story he built up.”
Violet’s face was faintly flushed with anger now. “That,” she said, “is the one thing I could never forgive you, Tony. I know it is a trifle by comparison, but it hurts the most, and would have killed the confidence that would have drawn us together. You were afraid I would not believe you?”
“Yes, I was afraid.”
The girl’s anger seemed to melt away, and left her face pale again, while it was with a curious wistfulness she answered him.