Olive did not reply, but waited for him to continue. For years her heart had been very bitter towards him, in spite of the fact that she believed he had revealed to her the real character of the man she had promised to marry. But then Sprague's part in the affair was not altogether honourable. He had been a party to the discussion which led to the wager, and although on his own account he had done his best to persuade Leicester from pursuing the course he had adopted, she could not think of him without a feeling of anger.
"I do not know whether you were angry, or thankful to me, for writing that letter," he said. "I never received any reply to it."
"There was nothing to which I could reply," she said.
"Perhaps not," replied Sprague, "and yet I have never known how you regarded my action in the matter. That is why I am so thankful for this opportunity of speaking to you."
"Pardon me," said Olive, "but would you mind letting the past be dead, and forgotten? As you may imagine, it cannot be pleasant to me."
"I only wanted to know that you had forgiven me," said Sprague. "Moreover, I wanted to tell you the truth. No one can be more ashamed than I at the course events took. But I never dreamt that—that ever your name would be mentioned. It was, as it were, forced upon me. As for that letter—well, I felt I could do no other than write it. It would have been cowardly, and base of me, not to tell you the truth."
"And what you told me was the truth—the whole truth?" asked Olive. She spoke quickly and nervously, as though a great deal depended upon the answer.
"As far as I know I told you exactly what happened—exactly. It seemed to me you had a right to know, and that it would have been criminal on my part if I had kept silent. That is what I wished to say."
"And now, having said it, will you never refer to it again."
"Just another word, please. You are not angry with me, that is, you do not think badly of me because I told you?"