No need for her to wonder if he had heard her interview with Florian Gay.
His cold avoidance, his reproachful face, spoke volumes.
“Philip!” she wailed, despairingly, then buried her shamed face in her jeweled hands.
Then he spoke, in a cold, hard voice she scarcely recognized:
“I heard everything, Viola. When the servant admitted me he said you already had a caller. So I went into the little morning sitting-room to wait till he went away, not dreaming it was my friend Florian. I heard your voices—they were raised in excitement so that I could not avoid it. Every word sank like lead on my heart!”
Hot tears sprang to her eyes and streamed through her fingers as she wondered what mercy she was to expect from her proud, high-minded lover who considered flirting a deadly sin.
He was very angry, she knew from his face and his attitude. She would have to be very humble and repentant to win his forgiveness.
She stole a glance at his face through her fingers, and saw that he was waiting for her to speak.
She could think of only one word, and it came pleadingly, imploringly:
“Forgive!”