He could not understand her in the least, unless she still had more to do, and thought to hold his friendship, perhaps for Searle’s protection.  He forced himself to probe in that direction.

“And you’d wish to go on being friends?”

It was a hard question—­hard to ask and hard to answer.  She colored anew, but she did not flinch.  Her love was too vast, too strong and elemental to shrink at a crucial moment.

“I valued your friendship—­very much,” she confessed steadily.  “Why shouldn’t I wish it to continue?”

It was aggravating to have her seem so honest, so splendid, so womanly and fine, when he thought of that line in her letter.  He could not spare himself or her in the agitation of his nature.

“Your way and mine are different,” he said.  “My arts in deceit were neglected, I’m afraid.”

Her eyes blazed more widely than before.  Her color went like sunset tints from the sky, leaving her face an ashen hue of chill.

“Deceit?” she repeated.  “You mean that I—­I have deceived you?  What do you mean?”

He could bear no more of her apparent innocence.  It was breaking his resolution down.

“Oh, we may as well be candid!” he exclaimed.  “What’s the use of beating round the bush?  I saw your letter—­read your letter—­by mistake.”

“My letter?”

“Your letter to your brother.  Through some mistake I was given the final page—­a fragment merely—­instead of your brother’s reply to be brought to you.  I was asked to read it—­which I did.  Is that enough?”

“My letter to——­ The last——­” At a sudden memory of that letter’s last page, with her heart’s confession upon it, she burned a blinding crimson.  “You read——­” she stammered, “—­and now——­” She could not look him in the face.  She leaned against the stair in sudden weakness.

“After that,” he said, “does my conduct occasion surprise?”

What he meant, in the light of the letter as she had written it to Glen, as she thought he must have read it, was beyond her comprehension.  She had fondly believed he loved her.  He had told her so in actions, words, and kisses.  What terrible secret, deep hidden in his breast, could possibly lie behind this thing was more than mind could fathom.  Or did he scorn and loathe her now for having succumbed to his love?  He had read her confession that she loved him more than anything else in all the world.  He knew the last faint word in her heart—­and flung her away like this!

She cast one frightened, inquiring look at his face.  It was set and hard as stone.  The light in his eyes was cold, an accusing glitter.  She felt herself utterly abashed, utterly shamed.  Her heart had lain naked before him, throbbing with its secret.  His foot was upon it.  There was nothing to cover its nakedness—­nothing to cover her confusion.

For a moment she stood there, attempting to shrink within herself.  Her attitude of pain and shame appeared to him as guilt.  He felt the whole thing poignantly—­felt sorry to send his shaft so truly home, sorry to see the effect of the blow.  But, what was the use?  His was the way of plain, straightforward dealing.  Better one swift wound, even unto death, than a lingering torture for years.