“You cannot!” he repeated. He was evidently struggling with his impatience and growing suspicious. “You cannot! But I think I have a right to know.”
“I appreciate your feelings, but I cannot tell you now.”
“Why not?”
“Because—Well, because I don't think it would be fair to her. She would not wish me to tell you.”
“She would not wish it? Was it because of me she left?”
“No; not in the least.”
“Was it—was it because of someone else? By Jove! it wasn't because of that Heathcroft cad? Don't tell me that! My God! she—she didn't—”
I interrupted. His suspicion angered me. I should have understood his feelings, should have realized that he had been and was disappointed and agitated and that my answers to his questions must have aroused all sorts of fears and forebodings in his mind. I should have pitied him, but just then I had little pity for others.
“She did nothing but what she considered right,” I said sharply. “Her leaving had nothing to do with Heathcroft or with you. I doubt if she thought of either of you at all.”
It was a brutal speech, and he took it like a man. I saw him turn pale and bite his lips, but when he next spoke it was in a calmer tone.