must tell the truth.” Her voice gathered strength as she spoke. “Oh, forget what I said—I didn’t mean it!”
But again he seemed sunk in inaction, like a man over whom some baneful lethargy is stealing.
“John—John—forget!” she repeated urgently.
He looked up at her. “You realize what it will mean?”
“Yes—I realize.… But it must be.… And it will make no difference between us … will it?”
“No—no. Why should it?” he answered apathetically.
“Then write—tell Mr. Langhope not to give him the place. I want it over.”
He rose slowly to his feet, without looking at her again, and walked over to the desk. She sank down on the ottoman and watched him with burning eyes while he drew forth a sheet of note-paper and began to write.
But after he had written a few words he laid down his pen, and swung his chair about so that he faced her.
“I can’t do it in this way,” he exclaimed.
“How then? What do you mean?” she said, starting up.
He looked at her. “Do you want the story to come from Wyant?”
“Oh" She looked back at him with sudden
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