"It's this way," Donelle went on slowly, as if afraid she might not make herself clear and yet fearing more that she might wrong another in her determination to reach safety. "It is Mr. Richard Alton. He—he isn't Mr. Alton at all, he's Mr. Norval. Mrs. Lindsay used to talk about him, and he came here to—to get to know me without my knowing him. And then—something happened!"
"What?" The word issued from Tom's lips like a snarl.
"We loved each other very much, Tom. We couldn't help it, but you see I am the kind of girl that makes it seem as if it did not matter very much, I guess. I am sure he didn't mean to hurt me; it just happened, and neither of us could help it, Tom."
"God! I'll kill him."
"Oh! no, Tom, you will not, you shall not hurt him. You will just help me, and then he'll think, I—I—did not care very much, that I was playing, just as he was. I want him to think that, more than anything else, for then everything will be easy. He must not think I care!"
"Did he tell you that he would marry you?" asked Tom with a terrible understanding in his eyes.
"Well, not exactly," Donelle tried to be very just, very true, "it was the big love, you know, and I just thought of being always with him."
"Why have you stopped thinking so?"
"Well, Tom, I will tell you. I was up in his cabin, waiting for him this morning, and his wife came. I know about her, too. When I heard her name I knew everything. And she told me many things and she showed me their baby's picture. It is such a pretty baby—oh! Tom."
The misery on Donelle's face roused in Gavot a cruel hate.