"How do I make it hard?" I asked. My voice was curiously low, almost husky in fact. I rather think she noticed it and took heart therefrom. A man is very easy to handle when he is not quite sure of himself.
"I've got to pretend," she said in answer to my question. "Pretend that you are nothing to me when——"
She stopped short. It seemed almost as if she regretted that she had said so much.
"Go on," I urged.
"There's not much to say," she continued. "I just want to tell you, to tell you in such a way that you'll believe me, that if I've treated you shamefully I've suffered for it. I can't make any reparation for it; you were quite right in saying that it is too late now to alter things. I just want you to know that I'm sorry. I can't say much more than that, though I don't want to take any credit for it now, seeing that it's been practically forced out of me."
I remembered the way she had been standing when I came in, the tears in her eyes, and the way she had backed out of my reach the moment I put my hands on her shoulders. It would have been so easy for her to have done the other thing, but she hadn't, and I admired her all the more for it. She might easily have captured me in the first flush of emotion, but she had instead given me time to think and a chance to get away if I wanted to. There was something in her attitude that appealed to my sense of fair play and at the same time prevented me from in any way misinterpreting her last remark.
"Moira," I said, "were you crying when I came in just now?"
Her lip trembled a little as she asked, "Why do you want to know?"
"Because," I said slowly, "I've solved one riddle already to-night, and I've a mind to solve another before I go to bed."
"I was crying," she admitted, "only I didn't mean you to see."