"Never, if you will first let me say one thing. You remember that Mr. Elgar once had doubts about my character. He was anxious on your account, lest you should be friendly with a person who was not all he could desire from the moral point of view. He did me justice at last, but it was very painful, as you will understand, to be suspected by one who embodies such high morality."
There was no virulence in her tone; she spoke as though quietly defending herself against some unkindness. But Cecily could not escape her eyes, which searched and stabbed.
"Why do you say this?"
"Because I am weak, and therefore envious. Why should you reject my sympathy? I could be a better friend to you than any you have. I myself have no friend; I can't make myself liked. I feel dreadfully alone, without a soul who cares for me. I am my husband's plaything, and of course he scorns me. I am sure he laughs at me with his friends and mistresses. And you too scorn me, though I have tried to make you my friend. Of course it is all at an end between us now. I understand your nature; it isn't quite what I thought."
Cecily beard, but scarcely with understanding. The word for which she was waiting did not come.
"Why," she asked, "do you speak of offering me sympathy? What do you hint at?"
"Seriously, you don't know?"
"I don't," was the cold answer.
"Why did you go abroad without your husband?"
It came upon Cecily with a shock. Were people discussing her, and thus interpreting her actions?