He was cool and assured, and spoke with the kindly authority of a husband.
"No, Francis!" She shook her head wearily. "That can't be all. I must know what it is—I must help you."
"You can't help me," he replied calmly. "I have told you enough. They can't do anything. I don't want to go any further into that business."
"I must know!" she cried.
He was startled at the new force in her voice, the sign of a will erecting itself with its own authority against him.
"Know what? What that fool Pemberton thinks of me? You heard enough of that, I guess."
"Don't put me off! Don't put me away from you, now, Francis! If we are to love each other, if we are to live together, I must know you, all of you. I am in a fog. There is something wrong all about me, and it gets between us and kills our love. I cannot—bear—it!"
Her voice broke into pleading, and ended in a sob. But controlling herself quickly, she added:—
"Mr. Pemberton is a fair man, a just man. But if he's wrong, I want to know that, too. I want to hate him for what he said to you."
"You would like to judge me, to judge your husband!" he retorted coldly. "That is not the way to love. I thought you would believe in me, all through to the end."