"Yes; I guessed it, but—" She did not know how much to say, how much to leave unsaid.
"Well, that is it," Sally replied, evasively. "My mother read about your case in the paper this morning."
"And she packed him off, like this, the same day?"
"Yes; my mother is a Christian. She sees things in that light."
"Did she send you with Maurie, then?"
"No; she forbade me to go. She was going to send him alone."
"Then why—?"
"Because I suppose I'm not a Christian."
"You came with him all the same?"
"Yes; I love him." She looked up into Mrs. Priestly's eyes. "Perhaps that sounds an offence to you? But he doesn't love me. You needn't be afraid that I've stolen his love from you. We always used to say our prayers together, and he always used to pray for you. One night I asked him to pray for me, and he said, 'Would that mean that I loved you?' And I—well—I wanted him to love me—you must blame me for that if you wish—I said 'Yes,' because I thought he was going to do it. And then—he said"—Sally stared hard at a stoker shovelling coals into the furnace of one of the engines—"he said he mustn't—because he only loved you. I only told you that because—"