“It’s very hard lines on you, Thelma,” I said softly.
She made no reply, but her eyes filled suddenly with tears. She put out her hand as if in acknowledgment of my sympathy and I took it in mine.
Its touch seemed to pour liquid fire through every pore of my being. I forgot all my good resolutions, all my pride of tradition and, in a second, I was kneeling beside her, pouring out a flood of impassioned words. What I said I have not the faintest idea. I was beside myself in a passion of love that broke all bounds and defied restraint.
Thelma rose quickly from her chair, crossed the room to the window and, burying her face in her hands, burst into a torrent of tears.
That brought me to my senses. I saw, too late, how unutterably foolish I had been. How utterly inexcusable was my conduct. Yet I had no regrets; rather I was thrilled with a savage joy that she should know the truth at last.
“Stanley had no right to leave you as he has done, without cause, or explanation after a few days only of marriage!” I cried. “It is harsh and cruel. It is not the act of a man of honor.”
But she held up her hand as though to stay my further words.
“I—I’m sorry I came here, Mr. Yelverton,” she said, suddenly, quite earnest and calm. “I thank you for all your efforts on my behalf but I think we must not meet in the future.”
“Then you still love the scoundrel who has deserted you!” I cried, unable to restrain myself.
“I will have no word said against him,” she replied gently. “Perhaps, after all, we have misjudged him. It is time I went back to the Hotel. Mother is taking me to see some friends tonight, and—and we return to Bexhill tomorrow.”