Again the bravely-suppressed emotion made Jeannie's voice to quiver.
"That is what I mean when I said that M. Dupré let her go," she said. "Often I think it was a barbarous kindness. He could not live with her any more—the fact that he loved her so much made that impossible—and he had either to divorce her or—or let her vanish into the glittering crowd of those who—who are made like that. He chose the latter: he accounted for her disappearance by the news, sent to Amiens and sent to us in England, that she had died.
"So five years ago Diana went to Paris, and for a time lived, not with the man who had taken her from her husband, but with another. During her married life she had lived in that beautiful country-house of his near Amiens, seldom going to Paris, and no one apparently ever found out who she really was. Then——"
Again Jeannie paused—paused a long time; and before she spoke she put her hands over her eyes, as if to shut out some dreadful vision.
"Then she left that man," she said, "and lived with another. You know him; I know him; Daisy also."
It was as if Lady Nottingham had caught sight of that which made Jeannie cover her eyes, for she winced and drew back.
"Don't—don't!" she said; "I can't bear that, please, Jeannie!"
At the sound of the beseeching voice Jeannie recovered all her self-control. She was wanted; Alice wanted her for comfort.
"Oh, my dear, you must not be afraid," she said. "We have to face the facts and not be afraid of them, but do our best, and see how we can arrest or alter the train of their consequences. It was he—Tom Lindfield."
Again she paused, and again continued, speaking quietly.