"Oh, but you were, you were!" she cried. "You knew. And I didn't. I didn't know! I didn't know! And you did—you!"
"Dearest," said Stainton. He tried to take her hand.
She was sitting straight up in bed, looking down at him, her hair falling over her nightgown.
"And you told me I wouldn't——You told me it wouldn't be!" she accused.
"I?"
"Yes. Yes, you did. You said there would be nothing to worry about. Those were your very words, Jim."
"Well, but, dear, there won't be anything to worry about."
"Nothing to worry about!" she repeated. She put her fingers to her temples. "Not for you, of course!"
Stainton was hurt: "Dearie, you know that if I could——"
"And anyhow," she interrupted, "you didn't mean that. You meant me to think what I did think."