"Won't you sit down," she said, when this was done, taking one of the richly carved chairs herself.
"No."
Kate's eyes blazed down upon Helen's face; her breath came and went rapidly, with a wheezing sound; her hands, on the luminous table-top, were clenched. Her whole body was so rigid that it trembled.
The colour began to leave Helen's face. "I'm waiting—go on."
Kate's lips suddenly quivered back from her teeth. She had to strike, even if she struck unjustly.
"People like you"—her voice was harsh, tremulous with hate—"you always believe the worst of a man. You throw him aside—crush him down—walk on him. You never think perhaps you've made a mistake, perhaps he's all right. Oh, no—you never think good of a man if you can think bad." She leaned over the corner of the table. "I hate your kind of people! I hate you!"
"Is this the thing you wanted no one to hear?" Helen asked quietly.
Kate slowly straightened up. After two days and two nights—a long, fierce, despairing battle between selfish and unselfish love—she had decided she must come here; but now her rehearsed sentences all left her. For a moment she stood choking; then the bald words dropped out:
"He's not a thief—never was one."
"Who?"