“Martin,” she murmured, deprecatingly, “there’s no use pretending. I don’t seem to feel it much except through you. You are so distressed. For myself it all seems—so unreal.”
He nodded. “That’s natural.”
She continued to study his face. “Martin, there’s worse behind?” she said suddenly.
He looked away.
“You suspect that this man … my husband … whom I do not know … that other man … murder, perhaps?”
He nodded.
She covered her face with her hands. But only for a moment. When they came down she could still smile at him.
“Martin, do not look so, or I shall hate myself for having brought all this on you.”
“That’s silly,” he said gruffly.
She did not misunderstand the gruffness. “Do not torment yourself so. It’s a horrible situation, unspeakably horrible. But it’s none of our making. We can face it. I can, if I am sure you will always—be my friend—even though we are parted.”