"Will you explain to me, Mr. Mallard, why you think yourself justified in asking such a question?"
In both of them there were signs of nervous discomposure. Miriam flushed a little; the artist moved from one attitude to another, and began to play destructively with a tassel.
"Yes," he answered. "I have a deep interest in Mrs. Elgar's welfare—that needs no explaining—and I have reason to fear that something in which I was recently concerned may have made you less disposed to think of her as I wish you to. Is it so or not?"
Her answer was uttered with difficulty.
"What can it matter how I think of her?"
"That is the point. To my mind it matters a great deal. For instance, it seems to me a deplorable thing that you, her sister in more senses than one, should have kept apart from her when she so much needed a woman's sympathy. Of course, if you had no true sympathy to give her, there's an end of it. But it seems to me strange that it should be so. Will you put aside conventionality, and tell me if you have any definite reason for acting as if you and she were strangers?"
Miriam was mute. Her questioner waited, observing her. At length she spoke with painful impulsiveness.
"I can't talk with you on this subject."
"I am very sorry to distress you," Mallard continued, his voice growing almost harsh in its determination, "but talk of it we must, once for all. Your brother came to my studio one morning, and demanded an explanation of something about his wife which he had heard from you. He didn't say that it came from you, but I have the conviction that it did. Please to tell me if I am wrong."
She kept an obstinate silence, sitting motionless, her hands tightly clasped together on her lap.