Next morning a fine mist covered the peninsula. The weather
promised well, and the outline of the castle mound grew clearer
each moment that Margaret watched it. Presently she saw the keep,
and the sun painted the rubble gold, and charged the white sky
with blue. The shadow of the house gathered itself together, and
fell over the garden. A cat looked up at her window and mewed.
Lastly the river appeared, still holding the mists between its
banks and its overhanging alders, and only visible as far as a
hill, which cut off its upper reaches.
Margaret was fascinated by Oniton. She had said that she loved
it, but it was rather its romantic tension that held her. The
rounded Druids of whom she had caught glimpses in her drive, the
rivers hurrying down from them to England, the carelessly
modelled masses of the lower hills, thrilled her with poetry. The
house was insignificant, but the prospect from it would be an
eternal joy, and she thought of all the friends she would have to
stop in it, and of the conversion of Henry himself to a rural
life. Society, too, promised favourably. The rector of the parish
had dined with them last night, and she found that he was a
friend of her father's, and so knew what to find in her. She
liked him. He would introduce her to the town. While, on her
other side, Sir James Bidder sat, repeating that she only had to
give the word, and he would whip up the county families for
twenty miles round. Whether Sir James, who was Garden Seeds, had
promised what he could perform, she doubted, but so long as Henry
mistook them for the county families when they did call, she was
content.
Charles Wilcox and Albert Fussell now crossed the lawn. They were
going for a morning dip, and a servant followed them with their
bathing-suits. She had meant to take a stroll herself before
breakfast, but saw that the day was still sacred to men, and
amused herself by watching their contretemps. In the first place
the key of the bathing-shed could not be found. Charles stood by
the riverside with folded hands, tragical, while the servant
shouted, and was misunderstood by another servant in the garden.
Then came a difficulty about a springboard, and soon three people
were running backwards and forwards over the meadow, with orders
and counter orders and recriminations and apologies. If Margaret
wanted to jump from a motor-car, she jumped; if Tibby thought
paddling would benefit his ankles, he paddled; if a clerk desired
adventure, he took a walk in the dark. But these athletes seemed
paralysed. They could not bathe without their appliances, though
the morning sun was calling and the last mists were rising from
the dimpling stream. Had they found the life of the body after
all? Could not the men whom they despised as milksops beat them,
even on their own ground?
She thought of the bathing arrangements as they should be in her
day--no worrying of servants, no appliances, beyond good sense.
Her reflections were disturbed by the quiet child, who had come
out to speak to the cat, but was now watching her watch the men.
She called, "Good-morning, dear," a little sharply. Her voice
spread consternation. Charles looked round, and though completely
attired in indigo blue, vanished into the shed, and was seen no
more.
"Miss Wilcox is up--" the child whispered, and then became
unintelligible.
"What is that?" it sounded like, "--cut-yoke--sack-back--"
"I can't hear."
"--On the bed--tissue-paper--"
Gathering that the wedding-dress was on view, and that a visit
would be seemly, she went to Evie's room. All was hilarity here.
Evie, in a petticoat, was dancing with one of the Anglo-Indian
ladies, while the other was adoring yards of white satin. They
screamed, they laughed, they sang, and the dog barked.
Margaret screamed a little too, but without conviction. She could
not feel that a wedding was so funny. Perhaps something was
missing in her equipment.
Evie gasped: "Dolly is a rotter not to be here! Oh, we would rag
just then!" Then Margaret went down to breakfast.
Henry was already installed; he ate slowly and spoke little, and
was, in Margaret's eyes, the only member of their party who
dodged emotion successfully. She could not suppose him
indifferent either to the loss of his daughter or to the presence
of his future wife. Yet he dwelt intact, only issuing orders
occasionally--orders that promoted the comfort of his guests. He
inquired after her hand; he set her to pour out the coffee and
Mrs. Warrington to pour out the tea. When Evie came down there
was a moment's awkwardness, and both ladies rose to vacate their
places. "Burton," called Henry, "serve tea and coffee from the
sideboard!" It wasn't genuine tact, but it was tact, of a sort--
the sort that is as useful as the genuine, and saves even more
situations at Board meetings. Henry treated a marriage like a
funeral, item by item, never raising his eyes to the whole, and
"Death, where is thy sting? Love, where is thy victory?" one
would exclaim at the close.
After breakfast Margaret claimed a few words with him. It was
always best to approach him formally. She asked for the
interview, because he was going on to shoot grouse to-morrow, and
she was returning to Helen in town.
"Certainly, dear," said he. "Of course, I have the time. What do
you want?"
"Nothing."
"I was afraid something had gone wrong."
"No; I have nothing to say, but you may talk."
Glancing at his watch, he talked of the nasty curve at the
lych-gate. She heard him with interest. Her surface could always
respond to his without contempt, though all her deeper being
might be yearning to help him. She had abandoned any plan of
action. Love is the best, and the more she let herself love him,
the more chance was there that he would set his soul in order.
Such a moment as this, when they sat under fair weather by the
walks of their future home, was so sweet to her that its
sweetness would surely pierce to him. Each lift of his eyes, each
parting of the thatched lip from the clean-shaven, must prelude
the tenderness that kills the Monk and the Beast at a single
blow. Disappointed a hundred times, she still hoped. She loved
him with too clear a vision to fear his cloudiness. Whether he
droned trivialities, as to-day, or sprang kisses on her in the
twilight, she could pardon him, she could respond.
"If there is this nasty curve," she suggested, "couldn't we walk
to the church? Not, of course, you and Evie; but the rest of us
might very well go on first, and that would mean fewer
carriages."
"One can't have ladies walking through the Market Square. The
Fussells wouldn't like it; they were awfully particular at
Charles's wedding. My--she--our party was anxious to walk, and
certainly the church was just round the corner, and I shouldn't
have minded; but the Colonel made a great point of it."
"You men shouldn't be so chivalrous," said Margaret thoughtfully.
"Why not?"
She knew why not, but said that she did not know. He then
announced that, unless she had anything special to say, he must
visit the wine-cellar, and they went off together in search of
Burton. Though clumsy and a little inconvenient, Oniton was a
genuine country-house. They clattered down flagged passages,
looking into room after room, and scaring unknown maids from the
performance of obscure duties. The wedding-breakfast must be in
readiness when they come back from church, and tea would be
served in the garden. The sight of so many agitated and serious
people made Margaret smile, but she reflected that they were paid
to be serious, and enjoyed being agitated. Here were the lower
wheels of the machine that was tossing Evie up into nuptial
glory. A little boy blocked their way with pig-pails. His mind
could not grasp their greatness, and he said: "By your leave; let
me pass, please." Henry asked him where Burton was. But the
servants were so new that they did not know one another's names.
In the still-room sat the band, who had stipulated for champagne
as part of their fee, and who were already drinking beer. Scents
of Araby came from the kitchen, mingled with cries. Margaret knew
what had happened there, for it happened at Wickham Place. One of
the wedding dishes had boiled over, and the cook was throwing
cedar-shavings to hide the smell. At last they came upon the
butler. Henry gave him the keys, and handed Margaret down the
cellar-stairs. Two doors were unlocked. She, who kept all her
wine at the bottom of the linen-cupboard, was astonished at the
sight. "We shall never get through it!" she cried, and the two
men were suddenly drawn into brotherhood, and exchanged smiles.
She felt as if she had again jumped out of the car while it was
moving.
Certainly Oniton would take some digesting. It would be no small
business to remain herself, and yet to assimilate such an
establishment. She must remain herself, for his sake as well as
her own, since a shadowy wife degrades the husband whom she
accompanies; and she must assimilate for reasons of common
honesty, since she had no right to marry a man and make him
uncomfortable. Her only ally was the power of Home. The loss of
Wickham Place had taught her more than its possession. Howards
End had repeated the lesson. She was determined to create new
sanctities among these hills.
After visiting the wine-cellar, she dressed, and then came the
wedding, which seemed a small affair when compared with the
preparations for it. Everything went like one o'clock. Mr. Cahill
materialised out of space, and was waiting for his bride at the
church door. No one dropped the ring or mispronounced the
responses, or trod on Evie's train, or cried. In a few minutes
the clergymen performed their duty, the register was signed, and
they were back in their carriages, negotiating the dangerous
curve by the lych-gate. Margaret was convinced that they had not
been married at all, and that the Norman church had been intent
all the time on other business.
There were more documents to sign at the house, and the breakfast
to eat, and then a few more people dropped in for the garden
party. There had been a great many refusals, and after all it was
not a very big affair--not as big as Margaret's would be. She
noted the dishes and the strips of red carpet, that outwardly she
might give Henry what was proper. But inwardly she hoped for
something better than this blend of Sunday church and
fox-hunting. If only some one had been upset! But this wedding
had gone off so particularly well--"quite like a durbar" in the
opinion of Lady Edser, and she thoroughly agreed with her.
So the wasted day lumbered forward, the bride and bridegroom
drove off, yelling with laughter, and for the second time the sun
retreated towards the hills of Wales. Henry, who was more tired
than he owned, came up to her in the castle meadow, and, in tones
of unusual softness, said that he was pleased. Everything had
gone off so well. She felt that he was praising her, too, and
blushed; certainly she had done all she could with his
intractable friends, and had made a special point of kotowing to
the men. They were breaking camp this evening; only the
Warringtons and quiet child would stay the night, and the others
were already moving towards the house to finish their packing. "I
think it did go off well," she agreed. "Since I had to jump out
of the motor, I'm thankful I lighted on my left hand. I am so
very glad about it, Henry dear; I only hope that the guests at
ours may be half as comfortable. You must all remember that we
have no practical person among us, except my aunt, and she is not
used to entertainments on a large scale."
"I know," he said gravely. "Under the circumstances, it would be
better to put everything into the hands of Harrods or Whiteley's,
or even to go to some hotel."
"You desire a hotel?"
"Yes, because--well, I mustn't interfere with you. No doubt you
want to be married from your old home."
"My old home's falling into pieces, Henry. I only want my new.
Isn't it a perfect evening--"
"The Alexandrina isn't bad--"
"The Alexandrina," she echoed, more occupied with the threads of
smoke that were issuing from their chimneys, and ruling the
sunlit slopes with parallels of grey.
"It's off Curzon Street."
"Is it? Let's be married from off Curzon Street."
Then she turned westward, to gaze at the swirling gold. Just
where the river rounded the hill the sun caught it. Fairyland
must lie above the bend, and its precious liquid was pouring
towards them past Charles's bathing-shed. She gazed so long that
her eyes were dazzled, and when they moved back to the house, she
could not recognise the faces of people who were coming out of
it. A parlour-maid was preceding them.
"Who are those people?" she asked.
"They're callers!" exclaimed Henry. "It's too late for callers."
"Perhaps they're town people who want to see the wedding
presents."
"I'm not at home yet to townees."
"Well, hide among the ruins, and if I can stop them, I will."
He thanked her.
Margaret went forward, smiling socially. She supposed that these
were unpunctual guests, who would have to be content with
vicarious civility, since Evie and Charles were gone, Henry
tired, and the others in their rooms. She assumed the airs of a
hostess; not for long. For one of the group was Helen--Helen in
her oldest clothes, and dominated by that tense, wounding
excitement that had made her a terror in their nursery days.
"What is it?" she called. "Oh, what's wrong? Is Tibby ill?"
Helen spoke to her two companions, who fell back. Then she bore
forward furiously.
"They're starving!" she shouted. "I found them starving!"
"Who? Why have you come?"
"The Basts."
"Oh, Helen!" moaned Margaret. "Whatever have you done now?"
"He has lost his place. He has been turned out of his bank. Yes,
he's done for. We upper classes have ruined him, and I suppose
you'll tell me it's the battle of life. Starving. His wife is
ill. Starving. She fainted in the train."
"Helen, are you mad?"
"Perhaps. Yes. If you like, I'm mad. But I've brought them. I'll
stand injustice no longer. I'll show up the wretchedness that
lies under this luxury, this talk of impersonal forces, this cant
about God doing what we're too slack to do ourselves."
"Have you actually brought two starving people from London to
Shropshire, Helen?"
Helen was checked. She had not thought of this, and her hysteria
abated. "There was a restaurant car on the train," she said.
"Don't be absurd. They aren't starving, and you know it. Now,
begin from the beginning. I won't have such theatrical nonsense.
How dare you! Yes, how dare you!" she repeated, as anger filled
her, "bursting in to Evie's wedding in this heartless way. My
goodness! but you've a perverted notion of philanthropy. Look"--
she indicated the house--"servants, people out of the windows.
They think it's some vulgar scandal, and I must explain, 'Oh no,
it's only my sister screaming, and only two hangers-on of ours,
whom she has brought here for no conceivable reason.'"
"Kindly take back that word 'hangers-on,'" said Helen, ominously
calm.
"Very well," conceded Margaret, who for all her wrath was
determined to avoid a real quarrel. "I, too, am sorry about them,
but it beats me why you've brought them here, or why you're here
yourself."
"It's our last chance of seeing Mr. Wilcox."
Margaret moved towards the house at this. She was determined not
to worry Henry.
"He's going to Scotland. I know he is. I insist on seeing him."
"Yes, to-morrow."
"I knew it was our last chance."
"How do you do, Mr. Bast?" said Margaret, trying to control her
voice. "This is an odd business. What view do you take of it?"
"There is Mrs. Bast, too," prompted Helen.
Jacky also shook hands. She, like her husband, was shy, and,
furthermore, ill, and furthermore, so bestially stupid that she
could not grasp what was happening. She only knew that the lady
had swept down like a whirlwind last night, had paid the rent,
redeemed the furniture, provided them with a dinner and a
breakfast, and ordered them to meet her at Paddington next
morning. Leonard had feebly protested, and when the morning came,
had suggested that they shouldn't go. But she, half mesmerised,
had obeyed. The lady had told them to, and they must, and their
bed-sitting-room had accordingly changed into Paddington, and
Paddington into a railway carriage, that shook, and grew hot, and
grew cold, and vanished entirely, and reappeared amid torrents of
expensive scent. "You have fainted," said the lady in an
awe-struck voice. "Perhaps the air will do you good." And perhaps
it had, for here she was, feeling rather better among a lot of
flowers.
"I'm sure I don't want to intrude," began Leonard, in answer to
Margaret's question. "But you have been so kind to me in the past
in warning me about the Porphyrion that I wondered--why, I
wondered whether--"
"Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion again,"
supplied Helen. "Meg, this has been a cheerful business. A
bright evening's work that was on Chelsea Embankment."
Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast.
"I don't understand. You left the Porphyrion because we suggested
it was a bad concern, didn't you?"
"That's right."
"And went into a bank instead?"
"I told you all that," said Helen; "and they reduced their staff
after he had been in a month, and now he's penniless, and I
consider that we and our informant are directly to blame."
"I hate all this," Leonard muttered.
"I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it's no good mincing matters. You
have done yourself no good by coming here. If you intend to
confront Mr. Wilcox, and to call him to account for a chance
remark, you will make a very great mistake."
"I brought them. I did it all," cried Helen.
"I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has put you in a
false position, and it is kindest to tell you so. It's too late
to get to town, but you'll find a comfortable hotel in Oniton,
where Mrs. Bast can rest, and I hope you'll be my guests there."
"That isn't what I want, Miss Schlegel," said Leonard. "You're
very kind, and no doubt it's a false position, but you make me
miserable. I seem no good at all."
"It's work he wants," interpreted Helen. "Can't you see?"
Then he said: "Jacky, let's go. We're more bother than we're
worth. We're costing these ladies pounds and pounds already to
get work for us, and they never will. There's nothing we're good
enough to do."
"We would like to find you work," said Margaret rather
conventionally. "We want to--I, like my sister. You're only down
in your luck. Go to the hotel, have a good night's rest, and some
day you shall pay me back the bill, if you prefer it."
But Leonard was near the abyss, and at such moments men see
clearly. "You don't know what you're talking about," he said. "I
shall never get work now. If rich people fail at one profession,
they can try another. Not I. I had my groove, and I've got out of
it. I could do one particular branch of insurance in one
particular office well enough to command a salary, but that's
all. Poetry's nothing, Miss Schlegel. One's thoughts about this
and that are nothing. Your money, too, is nothing, if you'll
understand me. I mean if a man over twenty once loses his own
particular job, it's all over with him. I have seen it happen to
others. Their friends gave them money for a little, but in the
end they fall over the edge. It's no good. It's the whole world
pulling. There always will be rich and poor."
He ceased. "Won't you have something to eat?" said Margaret. "I
don't know what to do. It isn't my house, and though Mr. Wilcox
would have been glad to see you at any other time--as I say, I
don't know what to do, but I undertake to do what I can for you.
Helen, offer them something. Do try a sandwich, Mrs. Bast."
They moved to a long table behind which a servant was still
standing. Iced cakes, sandwiches innumerable, coffee, claret-cup,
champagne, remained almost intact; their overfed guests could do
no more. Leonard refused. Jacky thought she could manage a
little. Margaret left them whispering together, and had a few
more words with Helen.
She said: "Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he's worth
helping. I agree that we are directly responsible."
"No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox."
"Let me tell you once for all that if you take up that attitude,
I'll do nothing. No doubt you're right logically, and are
entitled to say a great many scathing things about Henry. Only, I
won't have it. So choose."
Helen looked at the sunset.
"If you promise to take them quietly to the George I will speak
to Henry about them--in my own way, mind; there is to be none of
this absurd screaming about justice. I have no use for justice.
If it was only a question of money, we could do it ourselves. But
he wants work, and that we can't give him, but possibly Henry
can."
"It's his duty to," grumbled Helen.
"Nor am I concerned with duty. I'm concerned with the characters
of various people whom we know, and how, things being as they
are, things may be made a little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being
asked favours; all business men do. But I am going to ask him, at
the risk of a rebuff, because I want to make things a little
better."
"Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly."
"Take them off to the George, then, and I'll try. Poor creatures!
but they look tired." As they parted, she added: "I haven't
nearly done with you, though, Helen. You have been most
self-indulgent. I can't get over it. You have less restraint
rather than more as you grow older. Think it over and alter
yourself, or we shan't have happy lives."
She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these
physical matters were important. "Was it townees?" he asked,
greeting her with a pleasant smile.
"You'll never believe me," said Margaret, sitting down beside
him. "It's all right now, but it was my sister."
"Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she refused the
invitation. I thought hated weddings."
"Don't get up. She has not come to the wedding. I've bundled her
off to the George."
Inherently hospitable, he protested.
"No; she has two of her proteges with her and must keep with
them."
"Let 'em all come."
"My dear Henry, did you see them?"
"I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly."
"The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a
sea-green and salmon bunch?"
"What! are they out bean-feasting?"
"No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on I want to talk
to you about them."
She was ashamed of her own diplomacy. In dealing with a Wilcox,
how tempting it was to lapse from comradeship, and to give him
the kind of woman that he desired! Henry took the hint at once,
and said: "Why later on? Tell me now. No time like the present."
"Shall I?"
"If it isn't a long story."
"Oh, not five minutes; but there's a sting at the end of it, for
I want you to find the man some work in your office."
"What are his qualifications?"
"I don't know. He's a clerk."
"How old?"
"Twenty-five, perhaps."
"What's his name?"
"Bast," said Margaret, and was about to remind him that they had
met at Wickham Place, but stopped herself. It had not been a
successful meeting.
"Where was he before?"
"Dempster's Bank."
"Why did he leave?" he asked, still remembering nothing.
"They reduced their staff."
"All right; I'll see him."
It was the reward of her tact and devotion through the day. Now
she understood why some women prefer influence to rights. Mrs.
Plynlimmon, when condemning suffragettes, had said: "The woman
who can't influence her husband to vote the way she wants ought
to be ashamed of herself." Margaret had winced, but she was
influencing Henry now, and though pleased at her little victory,
she knew that she had won it by the methods of the harem.
"I should be glad if you took him," she said, "but I don't know
whether he's qualified."
"I'll do what I can. But, Margaret, this mustn't be taken as a
precedent."
"No, of course--of course--"
"I can't fit in your proteges every day. Business would suffer."
"I can promise you he's the last. He--he's rather a special
case."
"Proteges always are."
She let it stand at that. He rose with a little extra touch of
complacency, and held out his hand to help her up. How wide the
gulf between Henry as he was and Henry as Helen thought he ought
to be! And she herself--hovering as usual between the two, now
accepting men as they are, now yearning with her sister for
Truth. Love and Truth--their warfare seems eternal perhaps the
whole visible world rests on it, and if they were one, life
itself, like the spirits when Prospero was reconciled to his
brother, might vanish into air, into thin air.
"Your protege has made us late," said he. "The Fussells--will
just be starting."
On the whole she sided with men as they are. Henry would save the
Basts as he had saved Howards End, while Helen and her friends
were discussing the ethics of salvation. His was a slap-dash
method, but the world has been built slap-dash, and the beauty of
mountain and river and sunset may be but the varnish with which
the unskilled artificer hides his joins. Oniton, like herself,
was imperfect. Its apple-trees were stunted, its castle ruinous.
It, too, had suffered in the border warfare between the
Anglo-Saxon and the Celt, between things as they are and as they
ought to be. Once more the west was retreating, once again the
orderly stars were dotting the eastern sky. There is certainly no
rest for us on the earth. But there is happiness, and as Margaret
descended the mound on her lover's arm, she felt that she was
having her share.
To her annoyance, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden; the husband
and Helen had left her there to finish her meal while they went
to engage rooms. Margaret found this woman repellent. She had
felt, when shaking her hand, an overpowering shame. She
remembered the motive of her call at Wickham Place, and smelt
again odours from the abyss--odours the more disturbing because
they were involuntary. For there was no malice in Jacky. There
she sat, a piece of cake in one hand, an empty champagne glass in
the other, doing no harm to anybody.
"She's overtired," Margaret whispered.
"She's something else," said Henry. "This won't do. I can't have
her in my garden in this state."
"Is she--" Margaret hesitated to add "drunk." Now that she was
going to marry him, he had grown particular. He discountenanced
risque conversations now.
Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face, which gleamed in
the twilight like a puff-ball.
"Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel," he said
sharply.
Jacky replied: "If it isn't Hen!"
"Ne crois pas que le mari lui ressemble," apologised Margaret.
"Il est tout a fait different."
"Henry!" she repeated, quite distinctly.
Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. "I congratulate you on your
proteges," he remarked.
"Hen, don't go. You do love me, dear, don't you?"
"Bless us, what a person!" sighed Margaret, gathering up her
skirts.
Jacky pointed with her cake. "You're a nice boy, you are." She
yawned. "There now, I love you."
"Henry, I am awfully sorry."
"And pray why?" he asked, and looked at her so sternly that she
feared he was ill. He seemed more scandalised than the facts
demanded.
"To have brought this down on you."
"Pray don't apologise."
The voice continued.
"Why does she call you 'Hen'?" said Margaret innocently. "Has she
ever seen you before?"
"Seen Hen before!" said Jacky. "Who hasn't seen Hen? He's serving
you like me, my boys! You wait-- Still we love 'em."
"Are you now satisfied?" Henry asked.
Margaret began to grow frightened. "I don't know what it is all
about," she said. "Let's come in."
But he thought she was acting. He thought he was trapped. He saw
his whole life crumbling. "Don't you indeed?" he said bitingly.
"I do. Allow me to congratulate you on the success of your plan."
"This is Helen's plan, not mine."
"I now understand your interest in the Basts. Very well thought
out. I am amused at your caution, Margaret. You are quite right--
it was necessary. I am a man, and have lived a man's past. I have
the honour to release you from your engagement."
Still she could not understand. She knew of life's seamy side as
a theory; she could not grasp it as a fact. More words from Jacky
were necessary--words unequivocal, undenied.
"So that--" burst from her, and she went indoors. She stopped
herself from saying more.
"So what?" asked Colonel Fussell, who was getting ready to start
in the hall.
"We were saying--Henry and I were just having the fiercest
argument, my point being--" Seizing his fur coat from a footman,
she offered to help him on. He protested, and there was a playful
little scene.
"No, let me do that," said Henry, following.
"Thanks so much! You see--he has forgiven me!"
The Colonel said gallantly: "I don't expect there's much to
forgive."
He got into the car. The ladies followed him after an interval.
Maids, courier, and heavier luggage had been sent on earlier by
the branch-line. Still chattering, still thanking their host and
patronising their future hostess, the guests were borne away.
Then Margaret continued: "So that woman has been your mistress?"
"You put it with your usual delicacy," he replied.
"When, please?"
"Why?"
"When, please?"
"Ten years ago."
She left him without a word. For it was not her tragedy; it was
Mrs. Wilcox's.
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