“A woman who loves truly does not always proclaim it to the world,” was the reply.
“Then if you love him why are you in hiding? Why are you masquerading as my wife?” I demanded seriously. I was, I admit, piqued by her attitude, which I perhaps misjudged as defiant.
She shrugged her shoulders slightly, but met my gaze unflinchingly.
“You promised me your assistance,” she sighed. “If you now regret your promise I willingly release you from it.”
“I have no wish to be released,” I answered. “I only desire to know the truth. By a fortunate circumstance, Sybil, I have discovered your secret love for Arthur Rumbold—and yet at Ryhall you said you had decided to marry Ellice Winsloe.”
“A woman does not always marry the man she really loves,” she argued. “It is a regrettable fact, but horribly true.”
“Then you love this man, Arthur Rumbold? Come, do not tell me an untruth. We are old enough friends to be frank with each other.”
“Yes, we are. I am frank with you, and tell you that you have blamed yourself for assisting me, now that you have discovered my folly.”
“Folly of what?”
“Of my love. Is it not folly to love a man whom one can never marry?”