"I—don't—understand," she said.
"It's the only thing to do," he said. "Look at it fairly. Since the lady who married me sent you over as her substitute, she can't complain if I should acknowledge you as my wife. It injures nobody.—Don't mistake me!"
For the girl had sprung to her feet, and was gazing at him with horror in her eyes.
"Wait!" he said. "I'm not one of these talking fellows.—Perhaps I'm not putting it clearly. As far as I can make out, the doctor believes another shock on the top of this one might possibly kill my mother. She's not to be worried or contradicted. I can't go to her and tell her, 'That girl you are so fond of is an impostor. I've turned her out of the house,' seriously, how could I? And do you imagine she'd be contented with any excuse I could make to her for your disappearance? I can't risk it. You wouldn't want me to risk it. Come, you owe her a little consideration——!"
"Oh—!" she cried. "Yes"—but still she trembled.
Barnaby smiled down on her encouragingly. Apparently,—after that one quick word that had hushed her outcry,—he was unconscious of misconstruction.
"Besides," he said, "there will be row enough in the papers over my reappearance. I couldn't stand them getting hold of this. Good Lord! It would make us a laughing-stock."
"I am—sorry," she said, in a broken voice. Barnaby dropped his own.
"Don't be sorry," he said. "Be a brave girl, and let's keep it to ourselves."
Her heart jumped and stood still. She looked at him like some wild thing caught in a trap, without hope or help, crying its uttermost defiance.