She wept slowly, silently, then stopped suddenly and held herself in a restraint that was ten times more pitiful to see. Hannay was unspeakably distressed.
"Perhaps," said he, "if you could tell me what's on your mind, I might be able to relieve you."
She shook her head.
"Come," he said kindly, "what is it, really? What do you imagine makes it worse?"
"I said something to him that I didn't mean."
"Of course you did," said Hannay, smiling cheerfully. "We all say things to each other that we don't mean. That wouldn't hurt him."
"But it did. I told him he was responsible for Peggy's death. I didn't know what I was saying. I let him think he killed her."
"He wouldn't think it."
"He did. There was nothing else he could think. If he dies I shall have killed him."
"You will have done nothing of the sort. He wouldn't think twice about what a woman said in her anger or her grief. He wouldn't believe it. He's got too much sense. You can put that idea out of your head for ever."