Curiously human, curiously masculine at least was Stewart's mental condition at that moment. He had never loved the girl; it was with tremendous relief he had put her out of his life. And yet—
“So it's old Peter now, is it?”
“No, no, not that, Walter. He has given me shelter, that is all. I swear it. I look after the boy.”
“Who else is here?”
“No one else; but—”
“Tell that rot to some one who does not know you.”
“It is true. He never even looks at me. I am wicked, but I do not lie.” There was a catch of hope in her voice. Marie knew men somewhat, but she still cherished the feminine belief that jealousy is love, whereas it is only injured pride. She took a step toward him. “Walter, I am sorry. Do you hate me?” She had dropped the familiar “thou.”
Stewart crossed the room until only Peter's table and lamp stood between them.
“I didn't mean to be brutal,” he said, rather largely, entirely conscious of his own magnanimity. “It was pretty bad up there and I know it. I don't hate you, of course. That's hardly possible after—everything.”
“You—would take me back?”