"Don't tell me all then. You have called yourself Mrs. Beadon so far. You have heard nothing of Mr. Beadon lately except what you told me the other day?"
"Only what Mr. Johnson said." Milly averted her head and looked at her child. "The name," she went on in a low voice, "the name—is not—not Beadon."
"Never mind the name. Perhaps it is as well that you should not tell me. When did you see him last?"
"In May."
"Never since May?"
"Not once." Milly hung her head and played with the ring on her finger. "He does not want to see me again!" she broke out almost bitterly.
"Perhaps it is better for you both that he should not. But I will not ask any more," said Lettice. "I can understand that it must be very painful, either to tell me your story or to conceal it."
"I hate to conceal it from you!" Milly said passionately. "Oh, I wish I had never seen him, and never listened to him! Yet it was my fault—I have nobody to blame but myself. I have never forgiven myself for deceiving you so!"
"Ah, if that were the worst, there would not be much to grieve about!"
"I almost think it is the worst. Miss Lettice, may I really tell you my story—all, at least, that it would be right for you to hear?"