“Yes,” the Doctor went on, half to himself, “it was an unhappy love affair. The young lady’s mother parted them because he lived in West Lancaster, though he, too, might have had letters from high places in Germany. He and I made the same mistake.”
“Her mother,” repeated Margaret, almost in a whisper.
“Yes, the young lady herself cared.”
“And he,” she breathed, leaning eagerly forward, her body tense,—“does he love her still?”
“He loves her still,” returned the Doctor, promptly, “and even more than then.”
“Ah—h!”
The Doctor roused himself. “What have I done!” he cried, in genuine distress. “I have violated my friend’s confidence, unthinking! My friend, for whom I would make any sacrifice—I have betrayed him!”
“No,” replied Margaret, with a great effort at self-control. “You have not told me her name.”
“It is because I do not know it,” said the Doctor, ruefully. “If I had known, I should have bleated it out, fool that I am!”