“Behold me, as ever, your obedient servant,” he said, as he followed her into the screened-off portion of the porch.
“You must think it strange that I sent for you, I know,” she cried, as she turned to him. “But I couldn't wait. I—I did not know until last night. Howard only told me then. Oh, you didn't do it for me! Please say you didn't do it for me!”
“My dear Honora,” replied Trixton Brent, gravely, “we wanted your husband for his abilities and the valuable services he can render us.”
She stood looking into his eyes, striving to penetrate to the soul behind, ignorant or heedless that others before her had tried and failed. He met her gaze unflinchingly, and smiled.
“I want the truth,” she craved.
“I never lie—to a woman,” he said.
“My life—my future depends upon it,” she went on. “I'd rather scrub floors, I'd rather beg—than to have it so. You must believe me!”
“I do believe you,” he affirmed. And he said it with a gentleness and a sincerity that startled her.
“Thank you,” she answered simply. And speech became very difficult. “If—if I haven't been quite fair with you—Mr. Brent, I am sorry. I—I liked you, and I like you to-day better than ever before. And I can quite see now how I must have misled you into thinking—queer things about me. I didn't mean to. I have learned a lesson.”
She took a deep, involuntary breath. The touch of lightness in his reply served to emphasize the hitherto unsuspected fact that sportsmanship in Trixton Brent was not merely a code, but assumed something of the grandeur of a principle.