For the first time since she had known him, Louise gave him a personal look, a look that belonged to him alone, and held a warm ray of gratitude. Then, however, she went on unsparingly: "I want you to tell me who it was."
He laid his hat on a chair, and used his hands. "But if I assure you it is not true? If I give you my word that you have been misinformed?"
"Who was it? What is her name?"
He rose, and went away from the table.
"I knew him better than you," she said slowly, as he did not speak: "you or anyone else—a hundred thousand times better—and I KNOW it is true."
Still he did not answer. "Then you won't tell me?"
"Tell you? How can I? There's nothing to tell."
"I was wrong then. You have no pity for me?"
"Pity!—I no pity?" he cried, forgetting how, a minute ago, she had resented his feeling it. "But all the same I can't tell you what you ask me. You don't realise what it means: putting a slur on a young girl's name ... which has never been touched."
Directly he had said this, he was aware of his foolishness; but she let the admission contained in the words pass unnoticed.