"To tell me this?"
"To do the bidding of your letter, and to say that whilst I live I shall be shamed for the bitter words I gave you when I was sick."
"I mind them not; I had forgotten them," she said.
"But I have not forgotten, nor ever shall. Will you say you forgive me, Margery?"
"For thinking I had poisoned you? How do you know I did not?"
"I have seen Scipio. Will you shrive me for that disloyalty, dear lady?"
"Did I not say I had forgotten it?"
"Thank you," I said, meaning it from the bottom of my heart. "Now one thing more, and you shall send me to Father Matthieu. 'Tis a shameful thing to speak of, but the thought of it rankles and will rankle till I have begged you to add it to the things forgotten. That morning in your dressing-room—"
She put up her hands as if she would push the words back.
"Spare me, sir," she begged. "There are some things that must always be unspeakable between us, and that is one of them. But if it will help you to know—that I know—how—how you came there—"