Janet painted in a few more lines. "Do you mean to say you didn't realize that he wouldn't be able to stand what you told him?"
"I expected it."
"Then why—?"
"Simply it wasn't fair. You couldn't make it fair, however much you tried. You'd have done the same yourself. I think I could have been happy with him if he knew. I'd have worshipped his children. But I should have been miserable if he didn't know."
"So you've learnt at last what I told you?" said Janet. "Did Traill never wish you to have a child?"
"No; I don't think so. He never said anything about it."
"And you?"
"No; I don't think I did. I was too happy."
Janet bent down over the drawing-board. "You would now?" she said without looking up. In the delicate operation of painting in the petals of a rose, she did not realize that her question had not been answered. A minute slipped by and with breath strained in the holding of it, she repeated her question. "You would now?"
When the rose had bloomed under her brush, still receiving no reply, she sat upright and looked round. Sally's body was bent forward, her elbows were on her knees, her face in her hands.