Her head went down on her arms on the desk in front of her. Gage watched her with curiosity, embarrassment and pity. To his mind this love affair was a shady business but she didn’t see it so. That was evident. Her abandonment touched a chord of sympathy in him. He knew how she was being rent by pain.
“My dear girl,” he told her, more gently, “I’m afraid you’ve been very unwise.”
“No—not unwise.” She raised her head and smiled unsteadily. “I’ve been quite wise. It’s just bad luck—that’s all.”
“Could you tell me about it?”
She got up and walked to the window, evidently trying to compose herself. “It’s nothing that matters to any one but me. And I suppose you are thinking things that, even if they don’t matter, had better be set straight. For perhaps you think they matter. There’s nothing that I’ve done that I shouldn’t have done. I was there at that Inn—with—with my husband. It was just that we wanted—he even more than I at first until I learned why—to keep that little bit of life for ourselves. We didn’t want people to know—we didn’t want to share with any one except each other. I know you won’t understand but there’s nothing to condemn except that we had our own way of—caring.”
“But I do understand,” answered Gage, “and I’m glad you told me. I do most entirely understand. Because I’ve felt that way. Is your husband here?”
“He’s gone,” said Freda, “but he’ll come back. You see I married Gregory Macmillan.”
A memory of that slim, gaunt young poet came to Gage. Yes, this was how he would do it. And how perfect they were—how beautiful it all was.
“Mr. Flandon,” said Freda, “let them say what they please about me. Let them talk—they don’t know about Gregory—or do they?”
“No—they don’t.”