“You don’t need to worry about that little matter, Nan,” Jerry continued reassuringly. “Nobody’s going to know anything about it. Nobody does know anything about it—”
“Mr. Eaton?” she suggested faintly.
“I haven’t seen Cecil for two days. I’ve told you all there is to tell. I don’t know any more and I don’t want to know. Now, forget it! Only”—he deliberated a moment and then added brokenly—“only, for God’s sake, don’t ever try it again!”
It flashed upon her suddenly that the presence of her suit-case in Copeland’s office was susceptible of grave misconstruction.
“I’m going to tell you the whole story, Jerry; I think I’ll feel happier if I do.”
“Well, you don’t have to tell me anything; remember that!”
“Maybe not, Jerry. But I feel that having known me away back in the old times, you’ll understand better than anybody else.”
There was an appeal in this that filled his heart with pride. He was struck with humility that a girl like Nan should confide in him. He had not yet recovered from his surprise that she tolerated him at all.
“Please don’t think I was going to do anything wrong, Jerry,” she said pleadingly; “we were to have been married last night; it wasn’t—it wasn’t anything worse!” she faltered.
“Nan!” he gasped; “don’t say things like that! I wouldn’t think it—I hadn’t thought it of him! And you—!”