"He does not know what to believe now. Unless you can say something to reassure his mind, you will lose your George."
"You believe in me?"
"Implicitly."
"Then why doesn't George?" continued Janet, with the feminine talent for reasoning in a circle. "That is the only thing that is necessary. Not that I should say things I can't say, but that he should trust me. I don't care what other people think so long as he believes in me."
She, who had never exacted anything heretofore, whose one object had been to please her George, now made one demand upon him. It was the first and last which she ever made upon her lover. And he could not meet it.
"His belief is shaken."
"Truth will prevail," said Janet stubbornly.
"It will no doubt in the end, but in the meanwhile? And how if the truth is masked by a lie?"
Janet did not answer. Perhaps she did not fully understand. She saw only two things in these days: one, that George ought to believe in her; and the other, that, come what might, she would keep the promise made to Cuckoo on her death-bed. She constantly remembered the rigid dying face, the difficult whisper: "Promise me that whatever happens you will never tell anyone that you have burnt anything."
"I promise."