“Don’t, Mrs. Hillier. Don’t tell me any more. It might—I guess what you are going to say—I know it might have caused great trouble. But it didn’t. So never mind. You were upset—didn’t think.”
“Oh no, Mrs. Kellynch; you must let me confess it. I sha’n’t be at peace till I do. I want to tell—my husband—that I confessed and apologised. I actually wrote——”
“Really, all this is unnecessary. You are giving us both unnecessary pain,” said Bertha. “I know it—I guess it. Won’t you leave it at that? All traces of—the trouble were destroyed, and, if you want to be kind to me now, you’ll not speak of it any more.”
Mary had begun to cry, but she controlled herself, seeing it would please Bertha best.
“Very well, I’ll say no more. Only do, do try to forgive me.”
“I do with all my heart.”
“Then you’re angelic. Thank you.” After a moment’s pause, Mary put away her handkerchief.
“Have a cigarette,” suggested Bertha, who hardly knew what to do to compose her agitated visitor.
“No, no, thank you. Mrs. Kellynch, may I really ask you a great, great favour?”
“Please do.”