"Oh, I could do not do what you ask. Mr. Mallard's rooms are in another part of the house," Ida answered, thoughtlessly.
Ida now realized the importance of the admission she had thoughtlessly made. But she could not recall her words—it was too late.
Vivian looked astounded. This was a state of affairs of which she had never dreamed. Her idea had been to find some pretext to look through Eugene Mallard's desk, and to abstract all the notes she had written to him.
She remembered one or two which she had written in which she had poured out her love for him in a mad fashion, and she would not like any one to come across them.
But here she had unearthed a startling surprise. Eugene Mallard's rooms were in another part of the house. Then they were indeed estranged. She must find out the secret that lay between them.
"I am so sorry to have unearthed so sad a secret," cried the false friend, winding her arms more tightly about Ida, and turning her face away, that the young wife might not observe the look of triumph in it. "But every life has its sorrow, and perhaps it was meant that I should comfort you. If you are wearing out your heart longing for the sympathy of a true friend, oh, dear Ida, please do confide in me, and let me help you!"
The words had such a ring of sympathy in them that it was no wonder the young wife believed her. She was young and unversed in the ways of the world, or this beautiful false friend could not have deceived her so.
"Oh, Vivian, I am unhappy," she sobbed, "surely the most unhappy girl the sun ever shone on! I must make a confidant of some one—tell some one my troubles, or I shall die. My—my husband does not love me!"
"Does not love you!" repeated Vivian. "Then why on earth did he marry you?"