She went pale as her eyes met mine in quick anxiety.
“The truth—about what?”
“About your love for Arthur Rumbold,” I said very gravely, my gaze still fixed steadily upon hers.
In an instant her gloved hands clenched themselves, her lips twitched nervously, and she placed her hand upon her heart as though to stop its wild beating.
“My love?” she gasped blankly—“my love for Arthur Rumbold?”
“Yes, your love for him.”
“Ah! Surely you are cruel, Wilfrid, to speak of him—after—after all that has lately happened,” she burst forth in a choking voice. “You cannot know the true facts—you cannot dream the truth, or that man’s name would never pass your lips.”
“No,” I said gravely. “I do not know the truth. I am in utter ignorance. I only know that you met Mrs Rumbold at Fort William and travelled back with her to Dumfries.”
“That is quite true,” she answered. “I have no wish to conceal it.”
“But your love for her son—you have concealed that!”