"Mr. Mallard," she began, hesitatingly, "please pardon me for intruding upon you; but I could not wait."
He looked down wonderingly at the lovely young face so strangely pale.
"Would it not be as well for my wife to address me as Eugene?" he asked, with a grave smile.
She looked up at him and tried to utter the word; but somehow it seemed as though she could not.
My wife!
How those words cut her! If they had been the sharp thrust of a sword, they could not have cut her deeper.
His wife!
She would have given everything in this world if indeed it were true that she was Eugene Mallard's wife.
Another face rose before her vision—a fair, handsome, sneering face—and she drew back with a shudder.