"I loved you when you were a little boy—years ago," she said in a tremulous whisper. "I loved you when you went to Cambridge, and snubbed me so dreadfully when you came home . . . Chris—I loved you when I married you."
He raised her hand to his lips silently. The words were sweet, but it was not all that he wished to hear, and she went on disconnectedly.
309 "Chris—you know . . . I thought you had only married me for—for the money . . . I never knew till—till that last night——"
He interrupted.
"I don't want to hear—it was all my fault,"
"But I must tell you," she urged. "There is something I must tell you. It was my fault—everything that happened . . . about . . . about Feathers. You made me half mad, I think, and—and it was I who asked him to take me away. It was I who asked him—he was much too honorable . . . I—I can't bear that—that you should blame him."
"I blame myself—for everything," but his eyes searched her face with passionate jealousy.
"You said you hated me once," he reminded her morosely. "Marie Celeste, when did—when did you begin to care again?"
She looked away from him. Somehow she could not meet his eyes. There was a knowledge in her heart which she knew must always be a secret from him—the knowledge of her queer, inexplicable love for Feathers.
It was still there in her heart, and always would be, she knew, but already time had begun to soften and change it, as time subtly changes the outline and coloring of a picture without altering its beauty in the smallest degree—perhaps even adding to it.