‘Oh, Willie, I am so sorry.’
‘So am I, dear; sorry that you should have so little confidence in me; sorry that you should have thought me capable of carrying on, under the roof that shelters you, an intrigue with another woman. This letter—and I have received others like it—is from Reginald Talbot.’
‘But, Willie, what could I think?’ she pleaded humbly, ‘and why should you write to Mr. Talbot in cypher? And why when I charged you falsely—with—what—you have mentioned—did you look so—so guilty?’
‘Say rather so hurt and shocked, Margaret,’ he answered gravely. ‘It was surely only natural that I should be shocked at finding the girl I loved so distrustful of me.’
‘I was wrong, oh, very, very wrong; and yet,’ she pleaded, ‘I erred through love of you, Willie. If I had not cared for you so much—so very much—I should not have been so unreasonable.’
‘You mean so wild with jealousy,’ he replied smiling. ‘However, it’s all over now,’ and he held out his hand for the letter which she still retained.
‘Please to read it to me,’ she said; ‘a few words will do.’
His face grew pale again, as she thought with anger.
‘Why so?’ he replied. ‘Are you not satisfied even now?’
‘Yes, yes; it was foolish of me, I know, but I said “So help me Heaven.”’