“Yes,” she answered, though she knew only of the sensational details of the Garford history through Belle Shaler. But she did not wish to have him discuss them, for she comprehended how keenly the man must be suffering in his vanity.
He laughed his short, bitter laugh, the laugh which sounded like the bark of some wild animal, which was characteristic of his rebellious moods. To her, it was always a danger-signal. She rose and, moving easily, stood before him, young, awake, and smiling. He considered her thus with set glance, plainly resentful.
“Wonder if you know what I’m thinking,” he said, at last.
“I think I do. To-day you must hate me,” she said solemnly. “I’m sorry.”
His face showed too much surprise.
“No; I don’t hate you,” he said shortly, “not you—all the rest.”
“Yes; me, too,” she insisted. “I don’t mind. I understand it.”
He rose without notice of the flowers she had brought in timid offering, and, going to the desk, took up a newspaper, stared at it, and handed it to her. She glanced at it long enough to get the full significance of the photograph and the head-lines:
DAN GARFORD IN THE
LIMELIGHT AGAIN
Then she deliberately tore it into pieces and threw it into the waste-basket.