“I have. You said you could never forget that letter. . . . It was a great risk for us to marry; but you were so sweet and I was so miserable. . . . I see now that the thing never had a fair chance while Eric was alive. I heard his voice in the streets, wherever we’d been together, when I knew he was the other side of the world; and, as soon as I had a chance, I rushed to him. When he wouldn’t have anything to do with me, I did try once more to make a success of our life. You wished for a son; and I did my best, though Eric was the only man I wanted as father of my children. Perhaps that’s why I . . . couldn’t keep him alive, poor mite. . . . It’s funny that little things should cause such big troubles. If I hadn’t asked you to open my letters, we should have made a success.” . . .
There was a moment’s break in her terrible composure; and she turned away with a single dry sob.
“Why didn’t you tell me, Babs?”
“You wouldn’t have understood; you don’t understand now.”
“If I hadn’t understood . . . a little, should I have come?”
Unwittingly, I moved a step forward; and she held up her hand against me as though I were assaulting her:
“If you’d understood, you wouldn’t have waited twelve days.”
I was goaded beyond discretion by the scorn in her voice. I had understood and forgiven too little, it seemed, when I fancied that I had forgiven and understood too much.
“It was . . . a startling letter,” I answered in her own measure. “Whenever you told me you’d try to forget Eric . . .”
“You wondered for twelve days whether you could ever trust me again.” She did not trouble to look at me, but I felt myself flushing. “As though any other man could tear my heart out of me as Eric did! Why did you come?”