“In what way?”
“Ah,” she sighed, “if only I might tell you! If only I dared!”
“If you love me as you did on that evening when we wandered beside the river, you would brave all these mythical dangers and tell me the truth, Edith,” I said, bending towards her in a persuasive manner.
“But, as I have explained, I cannot. I will not—for your sake!”
“How can knowledge of it possibly affect me?” I cried.
She paused for a moment and then answered: “There are certain hidden influences at work, of which you, Gerald, have no suspicion. I alone am aware of the truth. Cannot you place sufficient confidence in me—in the woman who loves you—to leave the matter in my hands? Surely our interests are mutual!”
“I have, I regret, no confidence,” I said bluntly.
“Ah! because you are jealous,” she replied quite calmly. “Well, that is but natural in the circumstances. You discovered him, and you believe him to be my lover. Nevertheless, your jealousy should not lead you into any rash action which might wreck your life.”
“You speak as though you are anxious with regard to my personal safety. What have I to fear?”
“You have to fear the machinations of unscrupulous enemies,” she said anxiously. “You are living in ignorance of the peril that daily threatens you, and I—who love you so well—am unable to give you a single hint which might warn you of the pitfall so cunningly concealed.”