"They were bad times, some of them, Bernard," she returned, quietly. She moved a little nearer to him as they walked. "But I have always felt," she went on, "that it was not really you. I feel that—that the unfortunate habit you had contracted, the—the——"
"I understand," John intervened.
"I believe now," went on Elaine, "it was not really you. You were not responsible, and I always hoped that some time, when you had conquered yourself, you would become different."
She paused a moment, and John felt her arm slip through his. It was strange, but his pulse-beat quickened at this quiet manifestation of her growing feeling towards him. He felt that, somehow or other, she was being drawn towards him, that she was, as it were, shielding herself under his protection. And yet, all the time, the situation was an impossible one. He had no right to permit advances of this sort; the deception he was practising upon her was utterly and completely cruel. What would have happened, he asked himself, if he had suddenly faced her and had said: "I am not your husband, I am not Bernard Treves—but John Manton? The man you believe me to be—your husband—is a drug-sodden and hysterical degenerate, a soldier who has been guilty of treachery to his country."
His thoughts switched back to the necessity of turning the conversation. He could feel the warmth of her arm resting upon his own.
"Let us talk of cheerful things," he said. "For instance, that is a very pretty hat you have on."
"Do you like it? I made it myself."
"Yes, I like it," responded John, appearing to look at it with the critical eye of a husband. "Of course," he said, "it is quite easy for a hat to look well where you are concerned."
Elaine was frankly pleased.
"Why are you flattering me, Bernard?"