“She did not tell me. I accepted her silence, as a kind of answer and remarked that it would have been better if she had simply announced the fact to Mrs. Fyne at the cottage. “Why didn’t you do it?” I asked point-blank.
She said: “I am not a very plucky girl.” She looked up at me and added meaningly: “And you know it. And you know why.”
I must remark that she seemed to have become very subdued since our first meeting at the quarry. Almost a different person from the defiant, angry and despairing girl with quivering lips and resentful glances.
“I thought it was very sensible of you to get away from that sheer drop,” I said.
She looked up with something of that old expression.
“That’s not what I mean. I see you will have it that you saved my life. Nothing of the kind. I was concerned for that vile little beast of a dog. No! It was the idea of—of doing away with myself which was cowardly. That’s what I meant by saying I am not a very plucky girl.”
“Oh!” I retorted airily. “That little dog. He isn’t really a bad little dog.” But she lowered her eyelids and went on:
“I was so miserable that I could think only of myself. This was mean. It was cruel too. And besides I had not given it up—not then.”
* * * * *
Marlow changed his tone.