"Wait! I've got to tell you something! I don't know what you will do about it. You've had trouble enough—with me. But this is—is—unspeakable——"
"What on earth is the matter? Aren't you ill?" he began.
"Yes; that, too. But—there is something else. I thought it had made me ill—but——" She began to shiver, and he laid his hand on hers and found it burning.
"I tell you Allen ought to come at once——" he began again.
"No, no, no! You don't know what you're talking about. I—I'm frightened—that's what is the matter! That's one of the things that's the matter. Wait a moment. I'll tell you. I'll have to tell you, now. I suppose you'll—divorce me."
There was a silence; then:
"Go on," he said, in his heavy, hopeless voice.
She moistened her lips with her tongue:
"It's—my fault. I—I did not care for you—that is how it—began. No; it began before that—before I knew you. And there were two men. You remember them. They were the rage with our sort—like other fads, for a while—such as marmosets, and—things. One of these things was the poet, Orrin Munger. He called himself a Cubist—whatever that may be. The other was the writer, Adalbert Waudle."
Clydesdale's grin was terrible.