They suddenly came face to face, one morning, in one of the up-town parks. He looked ill and wretched; his hair had become white as snow, his face thin and pale, and his clothing hung loosely about him.
"Pardon me," he began, in uncertain tones, while he searched her face wistfully. "No doubt you despise me too thoroughly to wish to hold any intercourse with me; still, I feel that I must tell you how deeply I regret, and ask your pardon for, what occurred in the dressing-room at Wyoming on the last night of that 'winter frolic.'"
Edith's tender heart could not fail to experience a feeling of sympathy for the proud man in his humiliated and broken state. Remembering that it was through him that her blessed freedom from Emil Correlli and her present happiness had come, she forced herself to respond in a gentle tone:
"I have always felt, Mr. Goddard, that you were not fully conscious of what you were saying to me at that time."
"I was not," he eagerly returned, his face lighting a trifle that she should judge him thus leniently. "I had been drinking too much; still, that fact should, perhaps, also be a cause for shame. Pray assure me of your pardon for what I can never forgive myself."
"Certainly; I have no right to withhold it, in view of your apology," she responded.
"Thank you; and—and may I presume to ask you one question more?" he pleaded.
Edith's heart leaped into her throat at this, for she was impressed with a knowledge and a dread of what was coming.
For the moment she could not speak—she could only bow her assent to his request.
"I want to ask if—if, since you left my house, you have learned anything regarding my previous history?" he inquired, with pale lips.