He was aware that Mary Cartaret was sweet and good. But he had found that sweet and good women were not invariably intelligent. As for honesty, if they were always honest they would not always be sweet and good.
Through the door he opened for the eldest sister to pass out the other slipped in. She had been waiting on the landing.
He stopped her. He made a sign to her to come out with him. He closed the door behind them.
"Can I see you for two minutes?"
"Yes."
They whispered rapidly.
At the head of the stairs Mary waited. He turned. His smile acknowledged and paid deference to her sweetness and goodness, for Rowcliffe was sufficiently accomplished.
But not more so than Mary Cartaret. Her face, wide and candid, quivered with subdued interrogation. Her lips parted as if they said, "I am only waiting to know what I am to do. I will do what you like, only tell me."
Rowcliffe stood by the bedroom door, which he had opened for her to pass through again. His eyes, summoning their powerful pathos, implored forgiveness.
Mary, utterly submissive, passed through.