"Don't let yourself, all the same," Mamie consistently pursued, "be carried away by it. The thing can't be done—simply."
Lady Wantridge wondered. "'Done simply'?"
"Done at all."
"But what can't be?"
"Why, what you might think—from his pleasantness. What he spoke of your doing for him."
Lady Wantridge recalled. "Forgiving him?"
"He asked you if you couldn't. But you can't. It's too dreadful for me, as so near a relation, to have, loyally—loyally to you—to say it. But he's impossible."
It was so portentously produced that her ladyship had somehow to meet it. "What's the matter with him?"
"I don't know."
"Then what's the matter with you?" Lady Wantridge inquired.