"Was there a woman in it?" Her eyes were fixed on me as she put the question.
"There's a woman in most things," I answered, equivocally.
"Yes, I suppose so." She turned away and looked down, and asked next:—
"Were you very fond of her, Alexis?"
"Judging by the little ripple that remains on the surface now that she's gone out of my life, no: judging by the splash the stone made at first, yes. But she's gone."
"Yet the waters of the pool may be left permanently clouded. I am sorry for you, Alexis: and if you were really my brother, I would try and help you two together."
"That's not altogether a very proper thing to say." I spoke lightly, and she looked up to question me. "Her husband might not thank you, I mean: though I'm not quite sure about that;" and then having told her so much, I told her the story of my last meeting with Sir Philip Cargill and Edith. But she did not take it as I wished.
"You must have loved her if you meant to kill her," she said.
"And ceased then, if I left her to live a miserable life."
"I should like to see the woman you have ceased to love," she said, woman-like in curiosity—and something else.