She was silent for a moment, and then, with a curious directness, asked:
‘Where had he been then?’
‘How should I know where he’d been? I don’t meddle or mak in George’s affairs.’
She pressed him: ‘Didn’t it come out at the inquest where he’d been?’
He saw how things were going, and lied brazenly in George’s defence.
‘No,’ he said.
‘Well, that’s one comfort,’ she said, with a sigh. ‘I’ve borne enough shame from George without that!’ Then, as her suspicions flashed up again: ‘But I don’t believe you. They don’t let things like that pass.’
‘I don’t know what you’m after.’
‘Oh, you’re all the same, you men! You think women are simple enough to be put off with anything. It’s you who are simple. Do you think we don’t know it? I know where George was that night as well as you do. I’ve known of his new fancy for three months now. That woman and me have met one another on the road, and looked at each other and smiled and passed the time of day and not another word, because we knew, both of us, the thing was best hidden and it would humble the two of us if it came to light. But I don’t believe they’d let a thing like that go at a coroner’s inquest.’ She waited for his reply.
‘They said he’d been at Lesswardine. A widow woman, they said, but they didn’t tell her name. That’s the truth.’