“What people?” he asked, fiercely.
“Olive’s people. They all say I saddened my husband’s last hours. He was brought home dead from the hunting-field, you know. He had been—but, no! de mortuis nil nisi bonum.”
“Tell me,” he said, softly.
She began to speak, then broke off. “No, why should I tell you?” she said, gently.
“Because—because—I want to be your friend.”
Her bosom heaved. She caught her breath.
“It was a vile sporting-house.” She shuddered. “He left me with an oath on his lips.”
Matthew Strang was at boiling-point. He ground the pebbles furiously under his foot. Oh, the infamy of Society! That this lily should have been handled roughly! It was sacrilege. And yet, in some subtle way, he felt her more human than before. She, too—painful as it was to realize it—had known the mire of life; she, too, this delicate flower of womanhood! though it had left her unsullied, ethereal still. Then she would understand what he had gone through, she would know how coarse and unlovely life could be. He felt strangely nearer to her heart at this moment; some icy partition had melted away.
She ceased walking, and put both hands over her face. The fleecy wrap quivered on her shoulders. He waited in silent reverence.
“Perhaps I was inconsiderate,” she said at last, lifting her face dimmed with tears, “not forbearing enough.”