“Yes, he told me—”
“And—well?”
“Oh, I love you, Ellen—”
“That isn’t it. Did you care?”
Breckon had an inspiration, an inspiration from the truth that dwelt at the bottom of his soul and had never yet failed to save him. He let his arms fall and answered, desperately: “Yes, I did. I wished it hadn’t happened.” He saw the pulse in her neck cease to beat, and he swiftly added, “But I know that it happened just because you were yourself, and were so—”
“If you had said you didn’t care,” she breathlessly whispered, “I would never have spoken to you.” He felt a conditional tremor creeping into the fingers which had been so rigid against his breast. “I don’t see how I lived through it! Do you think you can?”
“I think so,” he returned, with a faint, far suggestion of levity that brought from her an imperative, imploring—
“Don’t!”
Then he added, solemnly, “It had no more to do with you, Ellen, than an offence from some hateful animal—”
“Oh, how good you are!” The fingers folded themselves, and her arms weakened so that there was nothing to keep him from drawing her to him. “What—what are you doing?” she asked, with her face smothered against his.