"If you would say something to me,—" he began, looking toward her.
She came out of the shadows into the firelight.
"There is nothing to say," she said, and her face looked then like the face on the hospital wall.
"I know it," he answered.
She covered her face with her hands, and turned quickly and fell down by a chair, burying her face in its cushions, and sobbing as though to break her heart.
Trevelyan did not move to go to her; he did not even look at her as she was crying there over his lost honor. Honor was so much to her. He had always known it. Perhaps it was for that he had first loved her.
After awhile she moved and leaned one elbow on the seat of her chair, her cheek in her hand. She turned her face, looking into his.
"I—I didn't mean to be cruel," she said, and her voice caught in sobs as she spoke. "I was—selfish. I—was only thinking of—myself. Of—of how I'd trusted you, and—and that! But oh, I'm—so sorry for—you. I—" she broke off, impatiently brushing the tears away with her hand.
Trevelyan stared into the fire.
"Don't talk that way," he said slowly, "I can bear anything but—that!"