‘You ask me questions instead of answering mine, Miss Tighe. If I should meet him—if through blind accident I should speak to Geoffrey again, would it be delicate, would it show proper womanly pride, for me to attempt one last explanation?’
Cassandra did not instantly reply. The sobbing of the wind had died among the poplars. The leaves fell noiselessly to the damp earth. Only the ticking of the clock on the stairs broke silence.
‘For ever—never!’
‘Never—for ever!’
And with each second, thought Marjorie, how many human loves must be laid low, how many hearts must begin to ache for all time as hers was aching now!
Miss Tighe sat calm and placid, as when the girl first entered, her hands folded on her knee. ‘And what earthly inducement had Pouchée to settle in a University town?’ she observed at length. ‘Why does the woman live alone?’
‘Her father was maître d’escrime in Cambridge. She and her mother live on in the house where he died. I rather think Mademoiselle gives French lessons still.’
‘Oh, Mademoiselle gives French lessons still, does she?’ Cassandra’s tone was absent. She rose, moved closer to the hearth. Her face was level with the miniature portrait of a lad in old-fashioned uniform that hung there. By and by, ‘I am going,’ she said very low, ‘to tell you something about which I have been silent for forty years.’
‘Miss Tighe——’