“But are you happy at being with me again?”
She smiled.
“Yes,” he said, “I know, of course.”
“Then why do you ask?”
“Well, I’m a trained observer, like every competent diplomatist, and—there’s something. I see in the lute of your happiness a tiny rift. It’s scarcely visible, but—I see it.”
“I’m not quite happy to-night.”
“And you won’t tell me why, on our honeymoon?”
“I want to tell you but I can’t. I have no right to tell you.”
“You only can judge of that.”
“I’ve done something that even you might think abominable, something treacherous. I had a great reason—but still!” She sighed. “I shall never be able to tell you what it is, because to do that would increase my sin. To-night I’m realizing that I’m not at all sorry for what I have done. And that not being sorry—as well as something else—makes me unhappy in a new way. It’s all very complicated.”