"If it is false," she said, "whatever it is, why need it trouble you?"
"That is true, my darling," he said, gulping down his fear and taking Greta in his arms, and trying to laugh lightly. "Why, indeed? Why need it trouble me?"
"Can you not tell me?" she said, with an upward look of entreaty. She was thinking of what Hugh Ritson had said of an impediment to their marriage.
"Why should I tell you what is false?"
"Then let us dismiss the thought of it," she said, soothingly.
"Why, yes, of course, let us dismiss the thought of it, darling," and he laughed a loud, hollow laugh. His forehead was damp. She wiped away the cold sweat. His temples burned. She put her cool hand on them. He was the very wreck of his former self—the ruin of a man. "Would that I could!" he muttered to himself.
"Then tell me," she said. "It is my right to know it. I am your wife now—"
He drew himself away. She clung yet closer. "Paul, there can be no secrets between you and me—nothing can be kept back."
"Heavenly Father!" he cried, uplifting a face distorted with agony.
"If you can not dismiss it, let it not stand between us," said Greta. Could it be true that there had been an impediment?