"A gentleman must lie like a gentleman," went on Grace Sheraton,
mercilessly. "I am here to congratulate you both."
I saw a drop of blood spring from Ellen's bitten lip.
"What she says is true," I went on to Ellen. "It is just as Gordon Orme
told your father, and as I admitted to you. I was engaged to be married
to Miss Sheraton, and I am still so engaged."
Still her small hands beat together softly, but she would not cry out,
she would not exclaim, protest, accuse. I went on with the accusation
against myself.
"I did not tell you. I had and have no excuse except that I loved you. I
am here now for my punishment. You two shall decide it."
At last Ellen spoke to my fiancee. "It is true," said she. "I thought
myself engaged to Mr. Cowles. I did not know of you--did not know that
he had deceived me, too. But fortunately, my father found us before it
was too late."
"Let us spare ourselves details," rejoined Grace Sheraton. "He has
wronged both of us."
"Yes, he has done wrong," I heard Ellen say. "Perhaps all men do--I do
not want to know. Perhaps they are not always to blame--I do not want to
know."
The measure of the two women was there in those words, and I felt it.
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