“I suppose,” said Recklow softly, “he doesn’t dream you are in love with him.”
Tressa Cleves did not stir a muscle. After a long silence she said in her even voice:
“Do you think I am in love with my husband, Mr. Recklow?”
“I think you fell in love with him the first evening you met him.”
“I did.”
Neither of them spoke again for some minutes. Recklow’s cigar went wrong; he rose and found another and returned to the fire, but did not light it.
“It’s a rotten day, isn’t it?” he said with a shiver, and dumped a scuttle of coal on the fire.
They watched the blue flames playing over the grate.
Tressa said: “I could no more help falling in love with him than I could stop my heart beating.... But I did not dream that anybody knew.”
“Don’t you think he ought to know?”