"Bill!" I said, from under the handkerchief.
"I should have come out sooner," he said without moving, "but at first I could not trust myself. I needed a little time."
"Who told you?"
"That doesn't matter, does it? Everybody knows it. But that's not the question. The real issue is between you and me and that—that nincompoop, Waite."
"What has Roger got to do with it?" I looked out from under the handkerchief, and he was livid, positively.
"Bill," I said desperately, "will you come over and sit down on the side of the bed and let me tell you the whole story?"
"I won't be bamboozled, Clara; this is serious. If you've got anything to say, say it. I'll sit here."
He sat down just inside the door on a straight chair and folded his long arms. It was a perfectly hopeless distance.
"Bill!" I said appealingly, and he came over and sat, very uncompromising and stiff, on the side of the bed. I put out my hand, and after a moment's hesitation he took it, but I must say without enthusiasm. I felt like the guiltiest wretch unhung. That's what makes me so perfectly furious now.
"You see, Bill," I said, "it was like this." And I told him the whole thing. About halfway through he dropped my hand.