"Ah, I have tried not to say it, to live it down. I can't—it's beyond me. I shall have no peace until it is said."
"Then say it."
He took her face in his two hands and looked into her eyes.
"Since I have been away," he said brutally, "there has been no one else in your heart? You have been true to me, to our love?"
"I have been true," she answered with a little smile.
He held his eyes on hers a long while, hesitating whether to be silent or to continue, and then, all at once, convinced, burst into tears and begged her pardon.
"Oh, I shouldn't have asked it—forgive me."
"Do whatever is easiest for you, my love," she answered. "There is nothing to forgive. I understand all. I love you for it."
Only she never asked him any questions, and that alarmed him.
The second time report had coupled her name with a Gabriel Lombardi, a great baritone with whom she was appearing. When he arrived, as soon as they were alone, he swung her about in his arms and cried in a strangled voice: