Gertrude, who had received these confidences in silence, turned her head away with an involuntary, instinctive movement of repugnance at the mention of Darrell's Christian name.
"Gerty," said Phyllis, who lay back among the pillows, a white ghost with two burning red spots on her cheeks, "Gerty, it is only fair that I should tell you: Sidney isn't as bad as you think. He went away in the summer, because he was beginning to care about me too much; he only came back because he simply couldn't help himself. And—and, you will go out of the room and never speak to me again—I knew he had a wife, Gerty; I heard them talking about her at the Oakleys, the very first day I saw him. She was his model; she drinks like a fish, and is ten years older than he is——I put that in the letter about getting married, because I didn't quite know how to say it. I thought that very likely you knew."
Gertrude had walked to the window, and was pulling down the blind with stiff, blundering fingers. It was growing dusk and in less than half an hour Lucy would be home. It was just a week since she had set out for Cornwall.
"Shall you tell Lucy?" came the childish voice from among the pillows.
"I don't know. Lie still, Phyllis, and I will see if Mrs. Maryon has prepared the jelly for you."
"Kind old thing, Mrs. Maryon."
"Yes, indeed. She quite ignores the fact that we have no possible claim on her."
Gertrude met Mrs. Maryon on the dusky stairs, dish in hand.
"Do go and lie down, Miss Lorimer; or we shall have you knocked up too, and where should we be then? You mustn't let Miss Lucy see you like that."
Gertrude obeyed mechanically. Going into the sitting-room, she threw herself on the little hard sofa, her face pressed to the pillow.