Rivière roused himself with an effort akin to that of Ulysses in the house of Circe.
"I'd better be quite frank with you," he answered. "I can't live with you again as man and wife."
"I realise your feeling so well. I admire you for it. It brings us nearer together. You feel yourself under an obligation to Miss Verney because of her intervention between you and that vitriol-thrower. You don't know just how you can repay it. Obviously you can't offer her money. A girl of her finely-strung feelings couldn't take a pension from you.... Now I have a suggestion that clears away the difficulty completely."
"What is it?" asked Rivière non-committally.
"Let me make her an allowance. Let the money pass through my hands to her. It needn't be a large allowance. I daresay she could live nicely on three or four pounds a week. If you agree, I'll go and arrange it myself, so as not to hurt her feelings."
That would be indeed revenge on Elaine! To buy back Clifford for a paltry four pounds a week—to have the delicate pleasure of doling out the money in the role of Lady Bountiful! She had a mental vision of the sweet little letters she could write to Elaine when she enclosed the monthly cheque—letters so sweet that they would sear.
But Rivière answered abruptly: "What did Miss Verney say to you to make such a complete change in your attitude towards her?"
"We chatted together this afternoon and came to realise one another's point of view—that was all. It was perfectly natural. A blind girl ... helpless ... without resources of her own.... Do you think I'm flint?"
"Then she made some appeal to you?"
"Clifford, dear, I don't think you and I ought to discuss what passed between Miss Verney and myself in the sick-room this afternoon. Some things are sacred."