There was a measure of accusation in the tone of the question, but I pretended not to detect it.
"Mrs. Rossiter, perhaps—she knows—or almost anybody. I never asked her."
"Very well! What then?"
"I was only going to say that when she heard I was here she came almost at once. I begged her not to—"
"Why? What were you afraid of?"
"I knew you wouldn't like it. But I couldn't stop her. No one could stop her when it comes to her doing an act of kindness. She obeys her own nature because she can't do anything else. She's like a little bird that you can keep from flying by holding it in your hand, but as soon as your grasp is relaxed—it flies."
Something of this was true, in that it was true potentially. She had these qualities, even if they were nipped in her as buds are nipped in a backward spring. I could only calm my conscience as I went along by saying to myself that if I saved her she would have to bear me out through being true to the picture I was painting, and living up to her real self.
Praise of the woman he adored would have been as music to him had he not had something on his mind that turned music into poignancy. What it was I could surmise, and so be prepared for it. Not till he had been some time silent, probably getting his question into the right words, did he say:
"And are you always alone when Mrs. Brokenshire comes?"
"Oh no, sir!" I made the tone as natural as I could. "But Mrs. Brokenshire doesn't seem to mind. Yesterday, for instance—"