“They have nothing to do with our affairs at present. You are not in earnest about the orchids, and you are trying to run away from a mistake instead of clearing it up. That is a short-sighted policy, always.”
Agatha grew alarmed, for she felt his old influence over her returning. “I do not wish to speak of it,” she said firmly.
Her firmness was lost on him. “I do not even know what it means yet,” he said, “and I want to know, for I believe there is some misunderstanding between us, and it is the trick of your sex to perpetuate misunderstandings by forbidding all allusions to them. Perhaps, leaving Lyvern so hastily, I forgot to fulfil some promise, or to say farewell, or something of that sort. But do you know how suddenly I was called away? I got a telegram to say that Henrietta was dying, and I had only time to change my clothes—you remember my disguise—and catch the express. And, after all, she was dead when I arrived.”
“I know that,” said Agatha uneasily. “Please say no more about it.”
“Not if it distresses you. Just let me hope that you did not suppose I blamed you for your share in the matter or that I told the Janseniuses of it. I did not. Yes, I like orchids. A plant that can subsist on a scrap of board is an instance of natural econ—”
“YOU blame ME!” cried Agatha. “I never told the Janseniuses. What would they have thought of you if I had?”
“Far worse of you than of me, however unjustly. You were the immediate cause of the tragedy; I only the remote one. Jansenius is not far-seeing when his feelings are touched. Few men are.”
“I don’t understand you in the least. What tragedy do you mean?”
“Henrietta’s death. I call it a tragedy conventionally. Seriously, of course, it was commonplace enough.”
Agatha stopped and faced him. “What do you mean by what you said just now? You said that I was the immediate cause of the tragedy, and you say that you were talking of Henrietta’s—of Henrietta. I had nothing to do with her illness.”