"This is all you have to say to me, Adela—your definite answer?"
"Definite enough," she retorted, with a nervous sob, between a laugh and a cry; for, what with fear and discomfort, she was becoming slightly hysterical.
"I am bound to believe you, Adela," he said, the tears in her eyes disarming his latent doubts. "I do believe you. But——"
"And now that you have had your say, listen to me," she interrupted, choking down all better feelings and speaking with contemptuous anger. "Never speak on the subject to me again if you would keep up the semblance of peace between us. My spirit is being dangerously aroused against you, Mr. Grubb; not only for this injustice to me, but for your barbarous treatment of poor Charles Cleveland."
Once more, he knew not why or wherefore, something like a doubt returned to Mr. Grubb's mind. He held her before him.
"It has been the truth, Adela?—as I hope, and pray, and trust! I ask it you once again—that it may be well with us in after-life."
"Would I trouble myself to tell a falsehood about it to you! Do you think I have no feeling—that I should bear such distrust? And if you would recompense me for this mauvais quart d'heure, you will release that poor fellow tomorrow—for his father's sake."
She flung her husband's arm away and quitted the room, leaving him to his feelings. Few can imagine them—torn, outraged, thrown back upon his generous heart. But she had certainly managed to dispel his doubts of herself. No guilty woman, as he believed, could have faced it out as she did.
"It must have been Cleveland's own act and deed, and no other person's," he mentally concluded. "What madness could have come over the lad?"