"But you don't know what——"
"Yes, I do. I never, never believed one word. Does that show you? Talk about something else. I don't want to be sick on such a lovely evening."
Charles relapsed into laughter.
"Isn't it so distressing on a wet day?" he asked.
"No. Do you know, I think what he did to father about the picture wasn't nearly so bad. That only made me feel rather unwell. Have you seen him since you knew about it all?"
Charles made a little conflagration of dry leaves with the match he had just lit before he answered.
"Yes, once or twice," he said. "I'm rather ashamed of not having seen him oftener. I believe he was sorry, and if people are sorry—well, it's all over, isn't it?"
"What a painfully noble sentiment," said Joyce. "But I don't think I should caress a scorpion, however grief-stricken. Besides, how can you say that it's all over, just because a person is sorry. He has become, to you, a different person if you find out he has done something mean, something—something like that. Not that I thought very much of Mr. Craddock before," she added.
"Well, I did," said Charles.
"Don't bias me," said Joyce.