"You see," said Jinny, "I was never sure of him."
A silence fell between them.
"You were in it," said Nina, troubling the silence. "It must—it must have been something you did to him."
"Or something I didn't do."
"Yes. Something you didn't do. You didn't know how."
Jane could have jumped at this sudden echo of her thought.
"And she did," said Nina.
She got up and leaned against the chimney-piece, looking down on Jane. "Poor Jinny," she said. "How I hated you three years ago."
Jane remembered. It was just three years since Nina had gone away without saying a word and hidden herself among the mountains where she was born. In her isolation she had conceived and brought forth her "Tales of the Marches." And a year ago she had come back to them, the Nina whom they knew.
"You can't hate me now," Jane said.