The light died out of his eyes.
"Marsh," she began again. "Could you forgive me if you knew that I'd thought I cared for some one else? Could you, if I told you that for a moment I had the thought—the silly thought, that I cared for another man?" She was conscious that his hand had grown cold beneath her cheek. "It was just a foolish fancy, quite as innocent as it was foolish, dear; you left me so much alone, and I thought you really didn't care for me any more, and so—and so—"
"Go on!"
"Well, that is all, Marsh."
"All?"
"Yes, it went no further than that, just a silly fancy, and I'd known him all my life—"
"Of whom are you speaking?"
"Of John North—"
"Damn him!" he cried. "And so that's what brought him here—and you were with him last night!" He sprang to his feet, his face livid. "What do you take me for? Do you expect me to forgive you for that—"
"But Marsh, it was just a silly sentimental fancy! Oh, why did I tell you!"