'I came because I thought it my duty to acquaint the authorities with certain facts that had been brought to my notice. I have done so, and that ends it----'
'It does not end it! You and Sir George disagreed, you know you did, as to its importance. You still think you are right, and yet you yield to him--why?'
There was a moment's pause, and then Jack Raymond gave a hard laugh. 'Why? I will tell you the truth, Lady Arbuthnot, though you may not like it--though I acknowledge it is humiliating--for all of us! Because I have had to yield to him before. Because he hasn't forgotten, and I haven't forgotten, and you haven't forgotten--not quite, have you? It is nothing to be ashamed of; it is only natural--one of the limitations of life--but there it is, isn't it?'
He took a step nearer in the silence.
'Isn't it?' he repeated. 'Tell the truth, Grace, and shame--don't let us say the devil--but fate. There, put your hand in mine, and face our own--forgetfulness!'
She faced it boldly, even though he felt her hand tremble in his--'Did I ever deny it?' she said softly, with tears in her voice; 'I do not, I cannot forget quite. It is pitiful, of course; but why----?'
'Don't!' he interrupted quickly. 'Don't, my dear lady! You will only make me remember more; that is the truth. As you say, it is pitiful; but there it is.'
She stood looking at him with a world of regret, some anger, and a little, a very little scorn.
'And you will let this interfere with--with everything.'
'Not with everything, but with this, certainly,' he pointed to the letter which he had laid on the console below the poinsettias. 'And that is all the easier to do, because I don't believe in it--quite. But if I were you, I should tell Sir George the truth and let him decide. As for the other matter about which I came to speak, he may be right, and I wrong. Time will show.'