"I must beg you to remember that you began the subject, Lance."
"I am ashamed of making such a fuss," she continued, "but there are some subjects too horrible even to dwell upon or speak of, and that is one. I am going into the garden, Lance; perhaps you and Mr. Ford would like your cigars there? I am going to prune a favorite rose tree that is growing wild."
"Do you understand pruning, Mrs. Fleming?" I asked.
"Such small things as rose trees," she said.
"We will follow you, Frances," said her husband. "My case is empty; I must get some more cigars."
I fancied that she was unwilling to leave us together. She lingered a few minutes, then went out. Then simple, honest Lance turned to me with his face full of animation.
"John, did you ever see such a tender-hearted woman in all your life? She is almost too sensitive."
My suspicions were certainties now, and my mind was more than ever tossed and whirled in tortured doubt and dread. I shall never forget one evening that came soon afterwards. We went to dine with a friend of Lance's, a Squire Peyton, who lived not far away, and he was the possessor of some very fine pictures, of which he was very proud. He took us through his pretty arranged gallery.
"This is my last purchase," he said.
We all three stopped to look at a large square picture representing the mother of the little Moses placing his cradle of rushes amongst the tall reeds in the water.