"That if you deny it to her, that may still do something."
Densher felt himself—as had already once befallen him in the quarter of an hour—turn red to the top of his forehead. Turning red had, however, for him, as a sign of shame, been, so to speak, discounted: his consciousness of it at the present moment was rather as a sign of his fear. It showed him sharply enough of what he was afraid. "If I deny what to her?"
Hesitation, on the demand, revived in her, for hadn't he all along been letting her see that he knew? "Why, what Lord Mark told her."
"And what did Lord Mark tell her?"
Mrs. Stringham had a look of bewilderment—of seeing him as suddenly perverse. "I've been judging that you yourself know." And it was she who now blushed deep.
It quickened his pity for her, but he was beset too by other things. "Then you know—"
"Of his dreadful visit?" She stared. "Why it's what has done it."
"Yes—I understand that. But you also know—"
He had faltered again, but all she knew she now wanted to say. "I'm speaking," she said soothingly, "of what he told her. It's that that I've taken you as knowing."
"Oh!" he sounded in spite of himself.