He could not go on. He saw that he had hurt the girl to the quick.
“I’m sorry,” he said hurriedly. “It is very difficult. I only wanted to be sure that you realised, that you knew, that—that . . .”
With bowed head and with her hands in her lap, Annie said in a low voice:
“I do know all that, sir. I thought that myself, sir, when I first come. Every night I cried because I was so wicked, and I thought I should never be forgiven, and mother had said such awful things to me. But Mr. Folyat came . . .”
“Frederic?”
“No, sir, Mr. Serge. He comes every Saturday. He paints all the afternoon and then comes here in the evening. Sometimes he walks a great many miles. He come and said I must never have any thought in my head that wasn’t happy, that I must never for a single instant let myself be afraid, for the sake of the child. He said everything that happened to me happened to the child too. And I’ve tried and I have been happy, so I know it’s true. He says: ‘What’s done is done, and people aren’t wicked all the time or good all the time.’ I don’t understand everything he says, but I always feel better when he comes, and I don’t think of anything but it. I want it to love me . . .”
“Of course, of course,” said Francis. “It is very important for you to be well, but you must not imagine . . .”
“I couldn’t take money from you, sir, if you thought me wicked. I have been wicked, but I’m not wicked any longer. I couldn’t do—what I did, ever again. I couldn’t be so silly . . .”
Francis thought to himself: “I must make her appreciate the peril through which her soul has passed. . . . She seems to be leaving her soul out of consideration altogether. I must make her see that she has a soul and can only find true happiness in its salvation through . . .” Once more he drew back from the contemplation of difficulties which he felt were too intricate for him. He said:
“My dear, be sure I think no ill of you. I only desired, my only thought was . . . is . . . has been to secure you as far as possible from the temporal consequences of your—er—betrayal.” He breathed heavily. Then he fell back on his natural candour and added: “I came meaning to say a great deal, but I find that I have nothing to say. I find it quite impossible to take a professional view of your situation. You must forgive me. I cannot help feeling that I have been guilty of an impertinence.”