Her head sank mournfully, she began to tear at the elaborate lace petticoat she wore.
“You mean William?” said Virginia gently.
She nodded. Then, with a convulsive effort, she went on, more to herself than to Virginia.
“He was good, and he loved me. He asked me to marry him, and I lied. I said I’d never been married before. I needn’t have said it, but I was afraid. I lied. And he hates me.” Her voice wavered again. “He hates me. I shall never see him again!”
“But you love him still, Fanchon,” Virginia said softly; “and if you love him you’ll forgive him.”
Fanchon’s face flamed suddenly.
“Never! I don’t want to see him again.” She rose unsteadily. “I’m going to dress and go out there.” She pointed toward the door, laughing again and trembling at the same time. “That fat man is out there. I’m going into his pictures. He’s not afraid to engage me for his show.”
“You can’t go, Fanchon,” said Virginia quickly. “You’re too ill. I must help you.” She stopped, and her eyes filled with tears. “Fanchon, I’m so sorry for you, I hope you understand. Let me help you.”
Fanchon turned, caught at a chair-back, and clung to it, laughing wildly.
“You’re so sorry for me—and he loves you!”