"If she is right——" she began, and stopped.
"She's not right, I tell you!" Wallace said. "She hasn't got a leg to stand on!"
"No," Martie conceded lifelessly, patiently. "But if she SHOULD be right——"
"But I tell you she isn't, Mart!"
"Yes, I know you do." The deadly gentleness was again in her voice. "I know you do!" she repeated mildly. "Only—only——" Her lip trembled despite her desperate effort, she felt her throat thicken and the tears come.
Instantly he was beside her again, and with her arms still raised she felt him put his own arms about her, and felt his penitent kisses through the veil of her hair. A sickness swept over her: they were here in the sacred intimacy of their own room, the room to which he had brought her as a bride only a few months before.
She freed herself with what dignity she could command. He asked her a hundred times if she loved him, if she could forgive him. Her one impulse was to silence him, to have him go away.
"I know—I know how you feel, Wallie! I'm sorry—for you and myself, and the whole thing! I'm terribly sorry! I—I don't know what we can do. I have to go away, of course; I can't stay here until we know; and you'll have to investigate, and find out just what she claims. I'll go to Sally, I suppose. People can think I've come up to help when the baby comes—I don't care what they think!"
"I thought you might go to Oakland for awhile," he agreed, gratefully; "but of course it'll be best to have you go to Sally—it'll only be for a few days. Mart, I feel rotten about it!"
"I know you do, Wallace," she answered nervously.