Her answer didn't satisfy him, because he didn't really believe her. She could say she didn't resent him, and didn't blame him, but that was all easy to say. Most of the things she might resent were his fault, no matter how she rationalized it out loud. If he'd been just a little wealthier, they could have had a lifestyle she'd been used to. If he'd been more responsible, he might have already had a house somewhere and they wouldn't have been stuck in Irvingly. If he'd been more respectable, maybe her parents would have been more amenable to marriage and wouldn't have disowned her. And then, of course: if he'd loved her, he might have asked them and saved her the turmoil of the broken betrothal to the American cad.

But it wasn't as though he could just tell her that he thought she was lying. Maybe she didn't even know she was lying; that was part of this martyr thing she'd latched onto. Her forced penance for her sins, for whatever good she thought it would do.

"It's fine," he said shortly. "Do what you want."