“One point at a time. I am now obliged to ask for the name of her seducer.”
She rose to her feet and held the chair between them. Her colour had ebbed, and she was grey. It did not displease him that she should receive his question thus.
“Take your time,” he counselled her. “Remember that this is far worse for me than for you.”
She swayed; he feared she was going to faint. Then speech came, and she said slowly: “Seducer? No; I do not know her seducer’s name.”
“Would she not tell you?”
“I never even asked her who seduced her,” said Margaret, dwelling on the hateful word thoughtfully.
“That is singular.” Then he changed his mind. “Natural perhaps, dear girl, that you shouldn’t ask. But until his name is known, nothing can be done. Sit down. How terrible it is to see you so upset! I knew you weren’t fit for it. I wish I hadn’t taken you.”
Margaret answered, “I like to stand, if you don’t mind, for it gives me a pleasant view of the Six Hills.”
“As you like.”
“Have you anything else to ask me, Henry?”