“How do you know?”
She laughed shortly. “I know—everything,” she said. “I listen to you night after night. I always have for years. I have heard you come up and go to your room, always. I always wait for that!”
“Gipsy, why—why should you?”
“Because,” she said—“because—” And then she said no more, and would have turned away, her errand done, but that he hastened to her and caught her by the hand.
“Gipsy, wait. Don’t go. Why did you come to tell me this of Joan to-night?”
“Because since you have asked her to be your wife, you belong to her, and you should not doubt her. She is above doubt—she could not be as some women, underhand and treacherous, deceitful. That would not be Joan Meredyth.”
“And yet you do not like her, dear. Why not?”
“I can’t—tell you.” She tried to wrench her hand free, yet he held it strongly, and looked down into her eyes.
What did he see there? What tale did they in their honesty tell him, that hers lips must never utter? Was he less blind at this moment than ever before in his life? Johnny Everard never rightly understood.
“Good night,” he said, “Gipsy, good night,” and would have drawn her to him to kiss her—as usual, but she resisted.