John thanked him as well as he could. When Alter had gone Margaret came to him.
“I never guessed that he might talk of it to-night,” she said. “But you have heard his opinion yourself, and I am glad of that. Was the rest of what he said true?”
“Yes—in a way. I never thought of it in those terms before.”
“And now you will go on thinking of it. You mustn’t, you mustn’t—but I know you will. And if it hurts, I am the cause of every hurt. I made you see clearly.” She looked straight into his eyes, her own eyes glistening. “Whatever comes of it all, will you try to forgive me?”
“Perhaps I shall thank you some day,” he answered. “After all, it is better to see clearly, isn’t it?”
“Great-grandmother would say so. But it’s the bravest thing of all.”
She gave him her hand and said good-night. Presently he was sitting in the smoking-room with Hugh, still conscious of her touch and hearing her voice, still seeing her dress flicker between the banisters as she went upstairs.
The next morning he went into the country to his own home. He told his mother that he had met Wingfield Alter.
“He is a very dear friend of mine,” she said. “I knew him before I met your father. He was married then, and poor, with no literary reputation. I saw him last soon after your father’s death.”