“What?”
“That you are often not so nice in your real presence as you are in your letters!”
“Does it really seem so to you?” said she, smiling with quick curiosity. “Well, that’s strange; but I feel just the same about you, Jude. When you are gone away I seem such a coldhearted—”
As she knew his sentiment towards her Jude saw that they were getting upon dangerous ground. It was now, he thought, that he must speak as an honest man.
But he did not speak, and she continued: “It was that which made me write and say—I didn’t mind your loving me—if you wanted to, much!”
The exultation he might have felt at what that implied, or seemed to imply, was nullified by his intention, and he rested rigid till he began: “I have never told you—”
“Yes you have,” murmured she.
“I mean, I have never told you my history—all of it.”
“But I guess it. I know nearly.”
Jude looked up. Could she possibly know of that morning performance of his with Arabella; which in a few months had ceased to be a marriage more completely than by death? He saw that she did not.