She allowed this theme to lapse, while she sat pensive.
"What shall I say," she asked at last, "if he brings the subject up?"
I saw another opportunity.
"What can you say other than what I've said already? You came to me because you were sorry for me, and you wanted to help Hugh. He might regret that you should do both, but he couldn't blame you for either. They're only kindnesses—and we're all at liberty to be kind. Oh, don't you see? That's your—how shall I put it?—that's your line if Mr. Brokenshire ever speaks to you."
"And suppose he tells me not to go to see you any more?"
"Then you must stop. That will be the time. But not now when the mere stopping would be a kind of confession—"
And so, after many repetitions and some tears on both our parts, the lesson was urged home. She was less docile, however, when in the spirit of our new compact she came on the following Monday morning.
"I must see him," was the burden of what she had to say. She spoke as if I was forbidding her and ought to lift my veto. I might even have inferred that in my position in Mr. Grainger's employ it was for me to arrange their meetings.
"You will see him, dear Mrs. Brokenshire—if it's right," was the only answer I could find.
"You don't seem to remember that I was to have married him."