" At last he came out with it. "You know
something I don't. You've shown me that before."
These last words had affected her, he made out in a moment,
exceedingly, and she spoke with firmness. "I've shown you, my
dear, nothing."
He shook his head. "You can't hide it."
"Oh, oh!" May Bartram sounded over what she couldn't hide. It was
almost a smothered groan.
"You admitted it months ago, when I spoke of it to you as of
something you were afraid I should find out. Your answer was that
I couldn't, that I wouldn't, and I don't pretend I have. But you
had something therefore in mind, and I see now how it must have
been, how it still is, the possibility that, of all possibilities,
has settled itself for you as the worst. This," he went on, "is
why I appeal to you. I'm only afraid of ignorance to-day--I'm not
afraid of knowledge." And then as for a while she said nothing:
"What makes me sure is that I see in your face and feel here, in
this air and amid these appearances, that you're out of it. You've
done. You've had your experience. You leave me to my fate.
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