"Oh, it was; I know. Whatever other people thought, he always understood. Do you see? We used to talk about you, every day I think, till just the last—and then, he knew what I was thinking. Then he was sorry when baby died. I can never forget that."
(Inconceivable! Had she never for an instant understood? Ah, well, if he had been so transfigured in her sight, she might well idealize Stanistreet.)
She went on impetuously, with inextricable confusion of persons and events. "Nevill—I wasn't kind to him. They said I didn't care—and I did—I did! It nearly broke my heart. Only I was afraid you'd think I loved him better than you, and so—I didn't take any notice of him. I thought he wouldn't mind—he was so little, you see; and then I thought some day I could tell him. Oh, Nevill—do you think he minded?"
He bowed his head. He had not a word to say. He was trying to realize this thing. To keep his worthless love, she had given up everything, even to the supreme sacrifice of her motherhood.
Her fingers clutched the counterpane, working feverishly. She had had something else to say. But she was afraid to say it, to speak of that unspeakable new thing, her hidden hope of motherhood. He covered her hands with his to keep them still.
"You see it was all right, as it happened."
"Yes—as it happened. But I think it was a little hard on poor old Stanistreet."
"Sometimes I wonder if it was fair. He used to say things; but I didn't take them in at the time. I didn't understand; and somehow now, I feel as if it had never happened. Perhaps it wasn't quite fair—but then I didn't think. I wonder why he's never been to see me."
"Can't say, Molly."
"He must have seen the fire in the papers—I hope he didn't think what you did. I mean—think—"