"You're so good to me—" she faltered.
"O—nothing! Let's not talk about that now."
"I must talk—you must let me. You're so kind, I've got to tell you. Won't you listen?"
He had crossed to a window, where he stood staring out. "I'd rather not," he said softly, "but if you prefer—"
"I do prefer," said the voice behind him. "I—I'm Mary Ladislas."
"Yes," said Whitaker.
"I ... I ran away from home last week—five days ago—to get married to our chauffeur, Charles Morton...."
She stammered.
"Please don't go on, if it hurts," he begged without looking round.
"I've got to—I've got to get it over with.... We were at Southampton, at my father's summer home—I mean, that's where I ran away from. He—Charley—drove me over to Greenport and I took the ferry there and came here to wait for him. He went back to New York in the car, promising to join me here as soon as possible...."