"We need not analyze my feelings, Mr. Walcott. I could not do that myself, until I have had time to think. But—is it right to leave other people under the conviction that your wife is actually dead, when you know that in all probability she is not?"
"I never said she was dead! I never suggested or acted a lie. May not a man keep silence about his own most sacred affairs?"
"Perhaps he may," said Lettice. "It is not for me to judge you—and at any rate, you have told me!"
She stood up and looked at him with her fearless grey eyes, whilst his own anxiously scanned her face.
"I am very, very sorry for you. If I can do anything to help you, I will. You must not doubt my sympathy, and I shall never withdraw my promise. But just now I cannot think what it would be best to do or say. Let me have time to think."
She held out her hand, and he took it, seeing that she wanted him to go.
"Good-bye!" he said. "God bless you for being what you are. It has done me good to talk. When we meet again—unless you write and give me your commands—I promise to do whatever you may tell me."
And with that, he went away.