A flame of red shot up in her white cheeks.
“I think he got into the water at about eleven o’clock. I tried to make him ford the stream, and he—he just got down and wallowed in the water. I had to get off.”
“You went out just after luncheon—while mother was at lunch, in fact—and you were coming home on those lonely roads at eleven o’clock at night, alone?”
She sat up in her chair at that, her flushed face turned fully toward him, and something like a flame kindling in her fawn-like eyes.
“Of course your mother told you!”
“Told me what?”
“About my talk with Corwin in the lane.”
William stared at her.
“My mother told me nothing. I didn’t mean to tell you, I didn’t mean to say anything,” he added grimly; “but since you’ve said so much, I will. I heard from father that Corwin followed you out on the turnpike to-day—to the edification of the town! Was he with you at the creek?”
Fanchon sat quite still, looking at him, her large eyes seeming to grow larger and darker in her white face. He returned the look as steadily, not in anger, but with a kind of grimness new in her experience with him. Neither of them moved, and the stillness in the room was so deep that they both heard the familiar sounds outside. The church clock struck in the distance, and some cocks crowed. The fresh breeze stirred the curtains in the window while the shaded lamp on the table flared up with the little gust. In the flare William saw the misery on his wife’s face.