“Hush!” he said, with upraised hand. “I never doubted that.”
“I will do any thing you wish,” she went on, and in her humility she was very dangerous. “I deceived you, I know. But I sold the Charity League before I knew that you—that you thought of me. When I married you I didn’t love you. I admit that. But Paul—oh, Paul, if you were not so good you would understand.”
Perhaps he did understand; for there was that in her eyes that made her meaning clear.
He was silent; standing before her in his great strength, his marvellous and cruel self-restraint.
“You will not forgive me?”
For a moment she leaned forward, peering into his face. He seemed to be reflecting.
“Yes,” he said at length, “I forgive you. But if I cared for you, forgiveness would be impossible.”
He went slowly toward the door. Etta looked round the room with drawn eyes; their room—the room he had fitted up for his bride with the lavishness of a great wealth and a great love.
He paused, with his hand on the door.
“And,” she said, with fiery cheeks, “does your forgiveness date from to-night?”