"I dare say, darling," the old lady said, "I may give you pain, but I think you really ought to know how wonderfully poor dear William is behaving in this sad affair. Though it must be terribly hard for him, though it must fill him with a pain that I can only guess at, he is moving heaven and earth to discover what has become of your poor boy. He is daily writing to me to tell me what he is doing, to inform me of his hopes, and I tell you, Marjorie, that if human power can discover what has happened to Guy, William Gouldesbrough will discover it. Do realize, dear, what a noble thing this is in the man you have rejected. Whenever I receive his letters I can't help crying a little, it seems so noble, so touching, and so beautiful of him."
Marjorie was sitting at the table. The ladies dined in their private rooms, and it was after the meal. Her head was in her hands and her eyes were full of tears. She looked up as her mother said this, with a white, wan face.
"Ah, yes, dear," she replied, "there is no doubt of that, William was always noble. He is as great in heart as he is in intellect. He is indeed one of the chosen and best. Don't think I don't realize it, mother, now you've told me, indeed I do realize it. My whole heart is filled with gratitude towards him. No one else would have done as much in his position."
"You do feel that, do you, dear?" Lady Poole said.
"Oh, indeed I do," she answered, "though I fear that even he, great as his intellect is, will never disperse this frightful, terrible darkness."
Lady Poole got up and came round to where her daughter was sitting. She put her hand upon the shining coil of hair and said—
"Dear, do you think that you could bear to see him?"
"To see William?" Marjorie answered quickly with a curious catch in her voice.
"Yes, darling, to see William. Would it give you too much pain?"
"But how, why, what for?"