Silence tingled between them. Maurice said, "You know?"
She nodded. He was too stunned to ask how she knew; he only said, "I've been a hound."
Instantly, as though some locked and bolted door had been forced, her heart was open to him. "Maurice! I can bear it—if only you don't lie to me!"
"I have lied," he said; "but I can't go on lying any more! It's been hell. Of course you'll never forgive me."
Instantly she was on her knees beside him, and her lips trembled against his cheek; but she was silent. She was agonizing, not for herself, but for him; he had suffered. And when that thought came, Love rose like a wave and swept jealousy away! It was impossible for her to speak. Over in his basket old Bingo growled.
"It was years ago," he said, very low; "I haven't—had anything to do with her since; but—"
She said, gasping, "Do you ... love her still?"
"Good God! no; I never loved her."
"Then," she said, "I don't mind."
His arms went about her, his head dropped on her shoulder. The little dog, unnoticed, barked angrily. For a few minutes neither of them could speak. To him, the unexpectedness of forgiveness was an absolute shock. Eleanor, her cheek against his hair, wept. Happy tears! Then she whispered: