"Oh!"
Prudence's way of uttering this interjection was as if she had struck a stinging blow across her companion's face. He winced inwardly, but still he met the stroke bravely. He had told her this in accordance with a resolve he had made long ago that he, on his part, would have no concealments from his wife. Perhaps the discovery that she sometimes prevaricated, sometimes colored simple statements, sometimes told downright falsehoods, had strengthened this resolve in him. On his side he would have simple, straightforward truth. But what was he, that he should rebuke her? Had he not broken the most sacred word a man can give,—broken it in the most insulting way possible? This thought came to him when he was tempted to rebuke. Then he would tell himself, with a corroding bitterness of feeling, that as a man sows so he must reap. He was reaping now.
"I suppose you think you love Carolyn." Prudence said this after a silence.
"LAWRENCE SPRANG TO HIS FEET."
CHAPTER XVI.
TÊTE-À-TÊTE.
Lawrence allowed himself an uneasy movement in his chair, and he did not answer.
Prudence sat stroking the head and neck of the crow, which still remained on her knee.