"But," I argued, "you told me yourself she said they'd represent him. And they do, don't they?"
"Represent him?" He grinned in his agony. "I should think they did."
"But," I persisted, because he seemed to me to be shirking the issue, "it was her idea, wasn't it? that they'd justify him, give him his chance to speak, to put himself straight with us?"
"She seems," he said meditatively, "to have taken that for granted."
"Taken it for granted? Skittles!" I said. "She must have seen they were impossible. I'm convinced, Burton, that she's seen it all along; she's merely testing you to see how you'd behave, how far you'd go for her. You needn't worry. You've gone far enough. She'll let you off."
"No," he said, "she's not testing me. I'd have seen through her if it had been that. It's deadly serious. It's a sacred madness with her. She'll never let me off. She'll never let herself off. I've told you a hundred times it's expiation. We can't get round that."
"She must be mad, indeed," I said, "not to see."
"See? See?" he cried. "It's my belief, Simpson, that she hasn't seen. She's been hiding her dear little head in the sand."
"How do you mean?"
"I mean," he said, "she hasn't looked. She's been afraid to."