"Do you mean—our marriage, Louise? Do you think that was a mistake?" "Yes." Her face grew very white, and she put one hand on a table, leaning a little on the support. His own face clouded. It was the way of this man to value things according to the difficulty of possession; and he found himself suddenly shaken by a new and strange tenderness for his wife, while at the same time he felt a swift and bitter suspicion. He turned and walked the floor, retracing his steps, and going the length of the room again. "It is true, then," he said. "It is true." "What is true?" "What Stratton told me. This thing the mill-hands are bruiting about." She started and stood quivering from head to foot, and he added slowly, watching her, "This story about you and Paul." She did not speak directly. She was like one brutally struck. Then infinite contempt rose in her face; her deep eyes flamed, and her voice, when she found speech, took its contralto notes. "You say that. You. When you know the situation was thrust upon him. When you, yourself, left me alone with our baby, in this rough milling camp, for weeks together, with no possible protection but his. Think of it. When I told you I was afraid, you asked him to see that the house had special watch at night; when I said that I missed you, you asked him to bring his violin and spend his evenings with me; even when Si’s hard illness came, it was not you who shared my anxiety; it was not you who quieted him, carried him in your strong arms. No, it was not you, but Paul Forrest. And he saved—little Silas; you know he risked his own life for him." Her voice broke. "Oh, you must see that he was forced into it; you must. He had enough else to do—but—you left him no alternative." "I left him no alternative? Well, I own it. But you, Louise, come, out with it. It’s true. You do love him." "No," and her voice thrilled him, "No. When a woman is married and has her little child—to think of, she doesn’t turn so easily to—other loves." At this he began to walk the floor again. She watched him with lifted head and flaming eyes. "I wonder," he said, stopping suddenly and regarding her with a touch of humor in his face, "I wonder if you think I don’t care anything for you." "Yes, you have led me to think so." He laughed aloud. "Why, I couldn’t care that," he snapped his fingers, "for any other woman. I couldn’t love any woman but you. Don’t you know it, Sweetheart?" He put his arm around her, drawing her head against his shoulder. "Come, say you forgive me." But she drew away, freeing herself desperately with her two arms. His own fell. She moved back and the step was immeasurable space between them. "No," she said. "No. Do not ask it." He took another turn across the floor, uncertainly, his hands seeking his pockets. "Tell me this," he said quietly, stopping before her. "Is there something else? Something more than—well—my neglect. Something I don’t know about."