“To give me a wedding present.”
“I was sorry that I had put you to the pain of refusing.” His tone is very gentle, and not in the least rancorous.
“Do you know why I refused?”
“I had a twinge of my old misgivings.”
For a moment—so complete is her innocence of the motive hinted at—she looks at sea. Then his meaning flashes painfully upon her. He supposes that from the causer of Bill’s death no member of Bill’s family can bring him or herself to accept a gift.
“Whatever your misgiving was, it was wrong,” she says, the eager desire to reassure him giving her a momentary glibness in conspicuous contrast to the lameness of her former speech. “You could not possibly have guessed the real reason; it would have required a more than human intuition.”
“Are you going—are you able to tell it me?”
“Yes, now.” She pauses a moment, as if to collect herself, and set her facts in order. “I must explain to you,” she says, “that my marriage is not like other marriages.”
“I do not understand.”
It would be better taste, as he feels, to allow her to tell her tale to its end, without remark; but she makes a slight halt, and the delay is unendurable.