You refuse me your confidence, and
expect me to believe in you! You set me aside for Adrienne de Gervais,
and then you ask me to--_trust_ you? How can I? . . . I'm not a fool,
Max."
"So it's that? The one thing over which I asked your faith?" The
limitless scorn in his voice lashed her.
"You had no right to ask it!" she broke out bitterly. "Oh, you knew
what it would mean. I, I was too young to realise. I didn't think--I
didn't understand what a horrible thing a secret between husband and
wife might be. But I can't bear it--I can't bear it any longer! I
sometimes wonder," she added slowly, "if you ever loved me?"
"If I ever loved you?" he repeated. "There has never been any other
woman in the world for me. There never will be."
The utter, absolute conviction of his tones knocked at her heart, but
fear and jealousy were stronger than love.
"Then prove it!" she retorted. "Take me into your confidence; put
Adrienne out of your life."
"It isn't possible--not yet," he said wearily. "You're asking what I
cannot do."
She took a step nearer.
"Tell me this, then. What did Olga Lermontof mean when she bade me ask
your name? Oh!"--with a quick intake of her breath--"you _must_ answer
that, Max; you _must_ tell me that. I have a _right_ to know it!"
For a moment he was silent, while she waited, eager-eyed, tremulously
appealing, for his answer.
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