Morris went on hesitatingly. "I feel guilty myself. Weeks ago I overheard gossip about your son and some girl. I wondered then whether I ought to say something to you. But it's so difficult in these cases to know what one ought to do. There's so much gossip in these little Cathedral towns. I thought about it a good deal. Finally, I decided that it wasn't my place to meddle."
"I heard nothing," she answered. "It's always the family that hears the talk last. Perhaps my husband's right. Perhaps there is nothing to be done. I see now that Falk never cared anything for any of us. I cheated myself. I had to cheat myself, otherwise I don't know what I'd have done. And now his doing this has made me suspicious of everything and of every one. Yes, even of a friendship like ours--the greatest thing in my life-- now--the only thing in my life."
Her voice trembled and dropped. But still he would not let himself pass on to that other ground. "Is there nothing I can do?" he asked. "I suppose it would do no good if I were to go up to London and see him? I knew him a little--"
Vehemently she shook her head.
"You're not to be involved in this. At least I can do that much--keep you out of it."
"How is he going to live, then?"
"He talks about writing. He's utterly confident, of course. He always has been. Looking back now, I despise myself for ever imagining that I was of any use to him. I see now that he never needed me--never at all."
Suddenly she looked across at him sharply.
"How is your sister-in-law?" His colour rose.
"My sister-in-law?"