“Mr. Page!” she cried. There was no trace of raillery in her voice. I had hurt her, and I knew, even in that moment, that for this she would never forgive me, unless—unless——
I told her the truth. “I am not Mr. Page,” I said, bluntly.
She leaned forward and gazed at me in blank amazement. But what she was able to see of my face must have convinced her that I spoke the truth. “Not Mr. Page?” she echoed, faintly, and shrank from me.
“No,” I said; “my name is Winslow. And I am not married to Edith, or to anyone else. Mr. Stoughton Page, so far as I know, is at home and has been all evening.”
I waited for her to speak, but she sat very still, her hands dropped in her lap, her head turned from me, and I thought that I knew a little of what she was thinking, and every second, which passed made it harder for me to have her think this.
“Let me tell you something,” I said at last. “It was a mistake, and it was all my fault. I did not know who you were when I first saw you. I only thought of taking you quickly to the club and leaving you there before you should find out that I was not the person I let you think I was. But on the way to the club I—I—it seemed to me as if I must have known you all my life. And then—I saw Mrs. Mason, and she has been my friend for so long, and—everything helped me. So, when no one came to take you home, I could not bear to give you up that way and maybe never see you again. And I did—what I did. And—that is all.”
She had not moved while I spoke and her face was denied me. But now she looked up. The veil hid her eyes; I could only guess at what was in her mind.
“You let me call you ‘Mr. Page’?” she said, after a moment.
“Page is my first name,” I answered.
She gave a little gasp. Somehow, I felt that my case was not so nearly hopeless. “And Mrs. Mason—did she—was she also helping to deceive me?” she asked.