"I never said I loved you," she murmured.
"Not in so many words," I admitted; "but why did you let me call you Ethelberta?" I asked passionately.
"Because it is not my name," she answered; and a ghost of the old gay smile lit up the lovely features.
I stood for a moment dumbfounded. Unconsciously we had come to a standstill under the window of the dining-room.
She took advantage of my consternation to say more lightly:
"Come, let us part friends."
I dimly understood that, in some subtle way I was too coarse to comprehend, she was ashamed of the part she had played throughout, that she would punish herself by renunciation. I knew not what to say; I saw the happiness of my life fading before my eyes. She held out her hand for the last time and I clasped it mechanically. So we stood, silent.
"What does that matter, Mrs. Windpeg? You're a real lady, that's enough for me. It wasn't because I thought you had money that I ventured to raise my eyes to you."
We started. It was the voice of Jones. Mrs. Windpeg had evidently lingered too long over her dessert.
"But I tell you I have nothing at all—nothing!" came the voice of Mrs. Windpeg.