"Yes," she answered with that skilful inconsecutiveness of hers, and let a brief silence touch his imagination. "Do you think that man means to come here again?" she asked.
"Chuck him out if he does," said Mr. Pope, grimly.
She pressed her lips together firmly. She seemed to be weighing things painfully. "I wouldn't," she said at last.
"What do you mean?" asked Mr. Pope.
"I do not want you to make an open quarrel with Mr. Trafford."
"Not quarrel!"
"Not an open one," said Mrs. Pope. "Of course I know how nice it would be if you could use a horsewhip, dear. There's such a lot of things—if we only just slash. But—it won't help. Get him to go away. She's consented never to see him again—practically. She's ready to tell him so herself. Part them against their will—oh! and the thing may go on for no end of time. But treat it as it ought to be treated—She'll be very tragic for a week or so, and then she'll forget him like a dream. He is a dream—a girl's dream.... If only we leave it alone, she'll leave it alone."
§ 6
Things were getting straight, Mrs. Pope felt. She had now merely to add a few touches to the tranquillization of Daphne, and the misdirection of the twin's curiosity. These touches accomplished, it seemed that everything was done. After a brief reflection, she dismissed the idea of putting things to Theodore. She ran over the possibilities of the servants eavesdropping, and found them negligible. Yes, everything was done—everything. And yet....
The queer string in her nature between religiosity and superstition began to vibrate. She hesitated. Then she slipped upstairs, fastened the door, fell on her knees beside the bed and put the whole thing as acceptably as possible to Heaven in a silent, simple, but lucidly explanatory prayer....