“The first time we actually spoke of our marriage,” she gave a quick, convulsive sigh, “was in answer to a question asked by my aunt the day after we had come to an understanding, early in November.”
“Come, come!” he exclaimed roughly, “that is what a mere man calls quibbling, Miss Bower. You know what I mean!”
“I do not know what you mean. If you mean did Mr. Garlett ever make love to me before his wife’s death, I answer, ‘No, never!’ He has told me since that instead of liking me, as many a man may like a young woman in his employment, he disliked me. He thought me too—too—” she sought for a word, and then faltered out the word “‘self-assured.’ The person who liked me, who tried to make love to me, was old Mr. Dodson.”
She covered her face with her hands. “Why do you force me to say these horrible, degrading things?” she asked brokenly.
He felt embarrassed, even perhaps slightly ashamed.
“You are making my task difficult, Miss Bower. Believe me, I have no wish to make you say anything either horrible or degrading. But it is my duty to ask you certain painful questions.”
He went on, in a more conciliatory tone. “I am to take it, then, that Henry Garlett never made love to you at all till the day when he became engaged to you early last November?”
“Yes,” she said, looking up, “that is the truth.”
“You ask me to believe”—but there was no jeering touch in his voice now—“that Mr. Garlett asked you to become his wife with no preliminary love passages at all?”
“Yes,” she said steadily. “I ask you to believe that, because it is true. After Mr. Garlett’s return, when we had worked together for some two months, seeing each other constantly, there came a day—a day——”