As Rex listened there were great drops of sweat on his forehead and about his lips and on his hands, which lay helpless on the bed. For an instant a feeling of resentment had swept over him that he should have been made the subject of a joke like this and that Tom should have aided and abetted it, or at least kept quiet. But the rain of tears from Rena’s eyes swept the hard feeling away, and he only asked:
“How could you do it?”
“I don’t know, except I thought it might be fun to see you and others mistaking Irene for me,” Rena said, and for a moment the hot blood flamed over Rex’s face and then left it deadly pale, with the sweat gathering faster and faster on his forehead and lips and he no power to wipe it away.
“Did you find it fun?” he whispered, and Rena answered:
“No, oh, no, and every hour after I saw you I wanted to confess it, but couldn’t, and then you seemed to admire Irene and I hoped you would like her so well that you would not care when you knew the truth.”
Something like a spasm of pain contracted Rex’s features, and he closed his eyes wearily, while the sweat was now like drops of water rolling down his face. Once he tried to lift his hand but could not, and he said feebly:
“Wipe it away, I can’t.”
She knew what he meant and very deftly and gently wiped his face and hands with her handkerchief, while her tears kept dropping fast.
“Don’t cry,” he said. “It will not make it any better. I am glad you have told me. I wish I had known it at first, and I don’t quite see what pleasure there was in making fun of me, and Tom in it, too.”
“There was none!” Rena cried, “and it was not to make fun of you. It was wrong and wicked. But Tom was not to blame. He wanted to tell you and I would not let him. I made him promise not to. I am the guilty one. Can you forgive me?”