“Yes,” he surprised her by saying; “on me.”
“You! Oh, if you want to go to the back of behind, you can blame Adam and Eve. But that’s not what I meant.”
“On me,” he said again. “I consented to this marriage. I sanctioned it.”
“Well,” said Anne, “I’ve not come here to crow, but I’ve the advantage of you in that. I did not consent,” and her eye strayed involuntarily to a scar on her hand, memorial of the form of her dissent. “I didn’t consent because I knew they weren’t in love. I told Sam I knew it.”
“Then,” said Peter, “you are worthier than I am, Mrs. Branstone.”
“Because I knew love matters? There’s nowt so wonderful in knowing that, and nowt so crafty in foreseeing that a marriage where there is no love is marred from start to finish.”
“Love matters,” he agreed. “It matters all, for God is love.”
“We’ll come to an agreement, you and me,” she said appreciatively. “We’ve the same mind about the root of things.”
“This is a terrible business, Mrs. Branstone.”
“I’m none denying it. It’s a terrible thing for a man and wife to live together when love’s not a lodger in the house; it’s wrong, and the worst of wrong is that it won’t stay single. Wrong’s got to breed. But, there,” she finished briskly, “I’m telling you what you know, and when all’s said, there’s nowt so bad that it’s past mending.”