His wife's entrance just then interrupted his pleasant thoughts. She had risen from her bed after lying awake two or three hours, and came in with a light wrapper over her nightdress, and her hair unbound on her shoulders. “Is it not getting very late, Merton?” she asked.
“Connie, come here,” he said, regarding her with some surprise, and then drawing her on to his knee. “My dear girl, you have been crying.”
“Yes, ever since I went to bed. But I didn't think you would notice, I did not mean you to know it.”
“Why not, darling? I am very sorry that what I said about Fan distresses you so much. But why should you hide any grief, little or great, from me, dearest?” he added, caressing her hair.
“I have never hidden anything from you, Merton, only to-night I felt strongly inclined to conceal what was in my mind. Let me tell you what it is; and will you, Merton, on your part, be as open with me and show the same confidence in my love that I have in yours?”
“Assuredly I will, Connie. We shall never be happy if we hide anything from each other.”
“Then, Merton, I must tell you that your readiness in resenting that little fault of Fan's, and making it a cause for separating us, makes me suspect that there is something behind it which you have kept from me. Tell me, Merton, and do not be afraid to tell me if my suspicion is correct, is there anything in your past life you wished to keep from me and which is known to Fan, and might come to my knowledge through her?”
“No, Connie, there is absolutely nothing in my past that I would hesitate to tell you. If I had had any painful secret I should have told it to you when I asked you to be my wife, and I am surprised that such a suspicion should have entered your mind. But I am very glad that you have told me of it. You shall send for Fan and question her yourself, for I presume you have never done so before, and after that you will perhaps cease to doubt me.”
“I do not doubt your word, Merton, and trust and believe that I never shall doubt the truth of what you say. To question Fan about you—that I could not do, even if the suspicion still lived, but it is over now, and you must forgive me for having entertained it.”
“Perhaps it was not altogether strange, Connie, since you attach so little importance to these distinctions. But they are very important nevertheless, and in this keen struggle for life, and for something more than a bare subsistence, we cannot afford to hamper ourselves in any way. I am quite sure that, even if I had spoken no word, you would have discovered after a while that this is an inconvenient friendship. I have known it all along, but have not hitherto spoken about it for fear of paining you. But do not distress yourself any more to-night, Connie; let things remain as they are at present, if it is your wish.”