“Marry him? The same man?” The Rector’s voice swelled above her like a wave; his presence towered, blurred and gigantic. She felt the tears in her throat; but again she was seized by the besetting desire that her secret should not be guessed, and a desperate effort at self-control drove the tears back and cleared her voice.
Dr. Arklow still loomed and brooded. “And the man—”
A slow flush of agony rose to her forehead; but she remembered that she was seated with her back to the light, and took courage. “He—he is determined.” She paused, and then went on: “It’s too horrible. But at first he didn’t know ... when he first met the girl. Neither of them knew. And when he found out—”
“Yes?”
“Then—it was too late, he said. The girl doesn’t know even now; she doesn’t dream; and she’s grown to care—care desperately.”
“That’s his defence?”
Her voice failed her again, and she signed her assent.
There was another long pause. She sat motionless, looking down at her own interlocked hands. She felt that Dr. Arklow was uneasily pacing the hearth-rug; at last she was aware that he was once more standing before her.
“The lady you speak of—your friend—is she here?”
She started. “Here?”