“Splendidly.”
Very slowly Francis turned that over in his mind and went back in memory to the day in Mrs. Entwistle’s cottage. It did not bring him any great elucidation, but it gave him a feeling of confidence in Serge, and, clinging to him, he said:
“What are we to do?”
“If you’ll agree to say nothing to my mother, to write nothing to Basil, and not to bother your head about the rights and wrongs of it, I’ll go to London and see Minna. If there’s a glimmer of hope I’ll do everything I can. If there isn’t, I’ll see Minna through. . . . I don’t think I shall come back. I can’t stay in this place much longer. It gobbles men up and doesn’t even have the decency to digest them properly. . . . It’s a machine and has no conscience about the past, no concern for the future. It darkens men’s minds so that they live hideously and their horrible sins are visited upon their children. No, I shan’t come back. I can’t. . . .”
“There is a great deal of wickedness in this place. It is God’s will,” said Francis.
“Men’s will. The will of men cheated and cozened by their own rapacity. . . . But that is neither here nor there. Will you agree to say nothing to my mother until you hear from me?”
“I’ll promise you that,” said Francis with a little compunction, for he saw how dark would be the days of waiting with such a secret tugging at his heart and his wife babbling of her children’s marriages. “How did you know? Did Mary tell you?”
“Yes, Mary told me. Mary has been rather a trump about it.”
“I shall be able to talk to Mary,” thought Francis, with a sigh of relief.