When she began to’ speak again, it was in a low, trembling voice. “I must tell you,” she said; “I have felt sure that you did not know.”
There was another pause. She hesitated, and her hands trembled; then suddenly she hurried on.—“I wanted you to know. I do not love my husband. I am not bound to him. He has nothing to say in my affairs.”
Montague sat rigid, turned to stone. He was half dazed by the words. He could feel Mrs. Winnie’s gaze fixed upon him; and he could feel the hot flush that spread over her throat and cheeks.
“It—it was not fair for you not to know,” she whispered. And her voice died away, and there was again a silence. Montague was dumb.
“Why don’t you say something?” she panted, at last; and he caught the note of anguish in her voice. Then he turned and stared at her, and saw her tightly clenched hands, and the quivering of her lips.
He was shocked quite beyond speech. And he saw her bosom heaving quickly, and saw the tears start into her eyes. Suddenly she sank down, and covered her face with her hands and broke into frantic sobbing.
“Mrs. Winnie!” he cried; and started to his feet.
Her outburst continued. He saw that she was shuddering violently. “Then you don’t love me!” she wailed.
He stood trembling and utterly bewildered. “I’m so sorry!” he whispered. “Oh, Mrs. Winnie—I had no idea—”
“I know it! I know it!” she cried. “It’s my fault! I was a fool! I knew it all the time. But I hoped—I thought you might, if you knew—”