“Yes.”
“Her determination—?”
“Her absolute determination.”
His words made her tremble again; there had always been moments when his reasonableness alarmed her more than his anger, because she knew that, to be so gentle, he must be certain of eventually gaining his point. But she gathered resolution to say: “And if I take back my threats, as you call them? If I take back all I’ve said—‘clear’ you entirely? That’s what you want, I understand? If I promise that,” she panted, “will you promise too—promise me to find a way out?”
His hand fell from her shoulder, and he drew back a step. “A way out—now? But there isn’t any.”
Mrs. Clephane stood up. She remembered wondering long ago—one day when he had been very tender—how cruel Chris could be. The conjecture, then, had seemed whimsical, almost morbid; now she understood that she had guessed in him from the outset this genius for reaching, at the first thrust, to the central point of his antagonist’s misery.
“You’ve seen my daughter, then?”
“I’ve seen her—yes. This morning. It was she who sent me here.”
“If she’s made up her mind, why did she send you?”
“To tell you how she’s suffering. She thinks, you know—” He wavered again for a second or two, and then brought out: “She’s very unhappy about the stand you take. She thinks you ought to say something to ... to clear up....”