'Yes, I wish to do so. I have come to you to talk about it, aunt, because I know you take things quietly, and just now I want a little help of the kind you can give. You have guessed, of course, what I am going to tell you,—part of it at least. Wilfrid and she have met.'
'They have met,' repeated the other, musingly, her face still rather anxious. 'In what way?'
'By chance, pure chance.'
'By chance? It was not, I suppose, by chance that you heard of the meeting?'
'No. Wilfrid told me of it. He told me on Sunday—'
Her voice was a little uncertain.
'Give me your hand, dear,' said Mrs. Baxendale. 'There, now tell me the rest.'
Beatrice half sobbed.
'Yes, I can now more easily,' she continued, with hurried utterance. 'Your hand is just what I wanted; it is help, dear help. But you mustn't think I am weak; I could have stood alone. Yes, he told me on Sunday. And that of course was the end.'
'At his desire?'