"Then it's you I've got to thank! You, with your damned humbugging pretense of friendship trying to steal my wife——"
He raised his fist in blind passion, and Feathers broke out in an agony:
"Chris! for God's sake . . ."
There was something so tragic in his ugly face, that Chris' hand fell limply, and he turned away, leaning his arms on the mantelshelf and hiding his face.
"It's absurd to say I'm sorry," Feathers said after a moment dully. "One can't find adequate words for—for a thing like this . . . There's only one reparation I can make, Chris . . . to tell—your wife."
Chris did not answer, and he went on. "I should like to feel that you still trust me sufficiently to—to allow me to tell her."
Chris flung up his head.
"Nothing will do any good. She hates the sight of me—and I don't wonder—if that is what she thought." There was something like a sob in his voice, and Feathers winced.
The delirium of that hour with Marie seemed like a dream. What madness had possessed him? Her love had been given to Chris and no 272 one else. It was only in her unhappiness that she had turned to him, as a sick child will often turn to a stranger away from the one it really loves best in all the world.
The thought hurt unbearably, but he knew it was the truth—knew that his only reparation was to give her back to Chris.