"How do you know I wrote a second letter?"
Taken aback by this sudden change of manner, he hesitated, then he smiled, but with an obvious effort. And the smile was not of mirth. It was a smile of the joyless type, often employed to carry favor. "Why—I—er—I don't know exactly."
"Yes you do know. You pried into my thoughts. It's your old trick. And a hateful habit."
"I am sorry, Ruth. I know it's a hateful habit."
"Then why do you do it?"
"I don't do it. I didn't mean to do it then. It's not a habit any more. Years ago I gave it up. But now, I was so anxious, so very anxious to know your real thoughts—to know if you really had no love for me at all—that I couldn't resist. I swear I will not do it again. Truly I almost never do it. But now, at the critical moment of my life, when it's a matter of life or death, the temptation was too great."
"It's an exasperating, dishonorable trick, and I don't like it."
"I am sorry, Ruth. Please forgive me."
"And you are very much mistaken if you think any woman with a particle of pride is going to marry a man who can spy into her secret thoughts—and merely by staring at her."