She was silent, her face quivering.
“And you think that of me? You would think it of me? No, from the first I knew you were Garrison—”
“Forgive me,” he inserted.
“I broke the engagement,” she added, “because conditions were changed—with me. My condition was no longer what it was when the engagement was made—” She checked herself with an effort.
“I think I understand—now,” he said, and admiration was in his eyes; “I know the track. I should.” He was speaking lifelessly, eyes on the ground. “And I understand that you do not know—all.”
“All?”
“Um-m-m.” He looked up and faced her eyes, head held high. “I am an adventurer,” he said slowly. “A scoundrel, an impostor. I am not—Major Calvert's nephew.” And he watched her eyes; watched unflinchingly as they changed and changed again. But he would not look away.
“I—I think I will sit down, if you don't mind,” she whispered, hand at throat. She seated herself, as one in a maze, on a log by the wayside. She looked up, a twisted little smile on her lips, as he stood above her. “Won't—won't you sit down and tell—tell me all?”
He obeyed automatically, not striving to fathom the great charity of her silence. And then he told all—all. Even as he had told that very good trainer and righteous friend, Dan Crimmins. His voice was perfectly lifeless. And the girl listened, lips clenched on teeth.
“And—and that's all,” he whispered. “God knows it's enough—too much.” He drew himself away as some unclean thing.