"Well!" said Mrs Baggett, following them into the dining-room.
"What do you mean by 'well'?"
"What did the folks say to you at Mr Hall's? I can see by your face that some of them have been saying summat."
"Nobody has been saying anything that I know of," said Mr Whittlestaff. "Do you go to bed." Then when Mrs Baggett was gone, and Mary had listlessly seated herself on a chair, her lover again addressed her. "I wish I knew what there is in your heart." Yet she would not tell him; but turned away her face and sat silent. "Have you nothing to say to me?"
"What should I have to say to you? I have nothing to say of that of which you are thinking."
"He has gone now, Mary."
"Yes; he has gone."
"And you are contented?" It did seem hard upon her that she should be called upon to tell a lie,—to say that which he must know to be a lie,—and to do so in order that he might be encouraged to persevere in achieving his own object. But she did not quite understand him. "Are you contented?" he repeated again.
Then she thought that she would tell the lie. If it was well that she should make the sacrifice for his sake, why should it not be completed? If she had to give herself to him, why should not the gift be as satisfactory as it might be made to his feelings? "Yes; I am contented."
"And you do not wish to see him again?"