“You—gossiping! That’s good. But I might have guessed you would hear all about it. Even one’s own particular rack and thumbscrew aren’t private property nowadays”—bitterly. “I wonder how much you know. What have you heard?”
“Oh, very little—” she began confusedly, her heart aching for the bitterness which still lingered in his voice.
“Tell me,” he insisted authoritatively. “I’d rather you knew the truth than some garbled version of it.”
Very reluctantly Ann repeated what she had learned from Mrs. Hilyard—the bare facts of that unhappy episode in his life which had turned him into a soured, embittered man.
“Anything more? Do you know who the woman was—her name?”
“No. Only that she was very young”—pitifully.
“I believe,” he said, cupping her face in his hand and turning it up to his, “I believe you are actually sorry for her?”
“Yes, I am. I’m sorry for any one who makes a dreadful mistake and loses their whole happiness through it,” she answered heartily.
“I’m afraid I don’t take such a broad-minded view of things,” he returned grimly. “I haven’t a forgiving disposition, and I believe in people getting what they deserve. You’d better remember that”—smiling briefly—“if ever you feel tempted to try how far you can go.”
“Do you know, I think you’re going to prove rather an autocratic lover, Eliot?” she said, laughing gently.