"I don't know—it depends."
"I don't know what I should do if you went. To have to stand that awful secret all alone . . . only me knowing. Oh! I couldn't! I couldn't! and now that Craven—"
"Craven knows nothing. He doesn't even suspect anything. See here, Bunning"—Olva crossed over to him and put his hand on his shoulder. "Can't you understand that your behaviour makes me wish that I hadn't told you, whereas if you care as you say you do you ought to want to show me how you can carry it, to prove to me that I was right to tell you—-"
"Yes, I know. But Craven—-"
"Craven knows nothing."
"But he does." Bunning's voice became shrill and his fat hand shook on Olva's arm. "There's something I haven't told you. This morning in Outer Court he stopped me."
"Craven stopped you?"
"Yes. There was no one about. I was going along to my rooms and he met me and he said: 'Hullo, Bunning.'"
"Well?"
"I'd been thinking of it—of his knowing, I mean—all night, so I was dreadfully startled, dreadfully startled. I'm afraid I showed it."