about her, he had held her; and, because of that, what she had just undergone had been more difficult to bear.
"I love you; you love me, Cynthia?" Byrne was begging of her now.
"Of course I do," she said.
"There's not someone else, then? Tell me, Cynthia!"
"No—no one else," she breathed. What could she say? She was not speaking for herself; but for Cynthia; and now she was absolutely sure that, for Cynthia, there could have been no one else. But she could not deceive him.
"My God!" he gasped the realization to himself, drawing back a little farther from her. "Then that's—that's been the matter all the time."
"All what time?" she asked.
"Since you met Gerry Hull in Chicago."
He meant, of course, since the girl who had loved him had died; but he did not know that. He had felt a change in the letters which had come to him which he could not explain as merely the result of their quarrel. Another man seemed to him the only possible explanation.
Someone opened a door behind them; and Ruth withdrew from the shaft of light. "We can't stay here, George," she said.
She thought that now he was noticing a difference in her voice; but if he did, evidently he put it down as only part of her alteration toward him.
"Where can we go?" he asked her.
"Not back to the pension," Ruth said.
"No; no! Can't you stay out with me here? We can walk."
