He sat down opposite to her with chalk-white face and reddened, unseeing eyes, and without any preamble recounted to her the story that Annette had told him a few hours before. "She wished you to know it," he said.
An immense thankfulness flooded Janey's heart as she listened. It was as if some tense nerve in her brain relaxed. He did know at last, and she, Janey, had not told him. He had heard no word from her. Annette had confessed to him herself, as Mr. Stirling had said she would. She had done what was right—right but how difficult. A secret grudge against Annette, which had long lurked at the back of Janey's mind, was exorcised, and she gave a sigh of relief.
At last he was silent.
"I have known for a long time that Annette was the woman who was with Dick at Fontainebleau," she said, her hands still folded on the open book.
"You might have told me, Janey."
"I thought it ought to come from her."
"You might have told me when you saw—Janey, you must have seen for some time past—how it was with me."
"I did see, but I hoped against hope that she would tell you herself, as she has done."
"And if she hadn't, would you have let me marry her, not knowing?"