She was silent. His words were surprising. She thought that she was aware of all his past—even of follies perpetrated when he was sowing his wild oats; but it appeared that there was one incident, the incident now troubling him, which he had always carefully concealed from her.
“If the secret so closely concerns yourself,” she said at last, “surely I am the person who may know.”
“No,” he replied briefly.
“But you have told me many other things of a delicate nature concerning yourself—why may I not know this, and help you to bear your trouble?” she asked coaxingly. “However much you may despise me for my frivolity and vanity, you surely do not think me capable of betraying your confidence, do you?”
“No,” he replied. “You have never betrayed any secret I have told you, Claudia, and I have no reason to suppose you would do so now. But this matter concerns myself—only myself.”
“And you will tell me absolutely nothing?”
“I—I cannot,” he declared brokenly.
A long silence again fell between the pair whose names had so long been coupled by the gossips. They certainly looked well suited to each other—he, tall, dark-faced, and undoubtedly handsome; she, brilliant and beautiful.
“Dudley, dear,” she murmured after a pause, placing her hand tenderly upon his arm, “you are certainly not yourself to-night. You are in trouble over some small matter which your own apprehensions have unduly exaggerated. Probably you’ve been working too hard, or perhaps you’ve made a long speech to-day—have you?”
“I spoke this afternoon,” he replied. The tone of his voice was unusually harsh.