Perhaps she believed the truth was possible to me now. That she had come to me, and alone, was almost proof of it. But nothing could ever alter the other accusation. She might trust me implicitly by this, but any passion for me, that I knew was impossible. It was sufficient for me that she had placed herself in my hands. It was more than sufficient that now, with all her tragedy and her disillusionment, she might come to look upon me as her protector. Who could tell but one day, impoverished as she was, she might let me take her to some dressmaker's and say: "Show this lady the best dresses that you've got."
Possibly that is not the way it is done. But I may learn one of these days how women manage such things.
Whatever the issue might be I knew then that I had plenty to live for. She was penniless. She was at the mercy of all I could do for her. But suddenly came the fear that she might ask me to send her back to Dominica. Yet even that, cruel a return to such hopes of mine as it might seem, would still leave me with the consciousness that I had justified my existence.
"But she won't do that," said I. "She couldn't do that. Women have bigger hearts than that—moreover, women understand. She couldn't do that."
Yet I suppose I must really have feared it, but when the door opened and Perowne closed it after him, all thoughts of what might happen in the future were gone from me. The immediate present looked at me forebodingly from his eyes.
"Well," I said quickly, "what is it? Is she better? What's happened? Have you brought her to?"
He put his hand on my shoulder.
"I suppose you know about this?" said he.
"About what?"
"She's going to have a child."