“You have known it?” Inez asked, faintly. Then her voice strengthened again. “But you have not known all! I did fight against it, as you say, and I was loyal until”—her voice broke for a moment—“until that day of the accident—in the cottage—I thought him dead—”
“Yes,” encouraged Helen, eagerly.
“Until then I was loyal, but when I was alone with him, and thought him dead, I—oh, Helen, you will hate me as I hate myself—then I kissed him, and I told him of my love, and I—”
“Yes, I know, dear,” Helen interrupted, her voice full of tenderness. “No one can blame you for what you did under such awful circumstances. I suspected what had happened when I found you where you had fainted across his body. But you can’t imagine how glad I am that you have told me all this. I felt sure you would, some day.”
“You will let me go now, won’t you? You can see how impossible it is for me to stay.”
“I need you now more than ever,” replied Helen, firmly. “If you insist on leaving I shall not urge you to stay, but even you—knowing what you do—cannot know how much I need you.”
“How did you know?” Inez asked, weakly.
“From what Ferdy said first, then from what I saw myself.”
“Why did you not send me away, then?”
“I had no right to do so, Inez.”