Confusion submerged her. His shoulder—the woman's legitimate refuge—was conveniently close; and she buried her blushes in it. At that a suspicion of the truth thrilled through him, like an electric current.
"Quita—look up—speak to me!" he besought her; his voice low, and not quite steady. "Is it possible . . ?"
"Darling, of course it is," she whispered back, without stirring. "Only—will you ever forgive me? I've saddled you with two women now, as if one wasn't bother enough!"
For answer he strained her closer; and so knelt for the space of many seconds; stunned, momentarily, by that deep-rooted, elemental joy in the transmission of life, which, in men of fine fibre, is tempered with amazement and awe; a sense of poignant, personal contact with the Open Secret of the world.
At last he spoke; and his words held no suggestion of the emotion that uplifted him.
"When? How old . . . how long ago?"
"Seven weeks ago. The second of October."
"Great Heaven! The day I was nearly done for; the day I crossed the
Pass. And I never dreamed . . . how it was with you."
Then, very gently, she found her head lifted from its resting-place; his eyes searching her own with an insistence not to be denied.
"Quita, you must have realised—all this before I started?"