“That was it? I suppose you’ll say next it was I who frightened you?”
As they faced each other there, Agatha, with the terrible, the almost supernatural lucidity she had, saw what was making Milly say that. Milly had been frightened; she felt that she had probably communicated her fright; she knew that was dangerous, and she knew that if it had done harm to Harding, she, and not Agatha, would be responsible. And because she couldn’t face her responsibility, she was trying to fasten upon Agatha some other fault than fear.
“No, Milly, I don’t say you frightened me; it was my own fear.”
“What was there for you to be afraid of?”
Agatha was silent. That was what she must never tell her, not even to make her understand. She did not know what Milly was trying to think of her; Milly might think what she liked; but she should never know what her terror had been and her danger.
Agatha’s silence helped Milly.
“Nothing,” she said, “will make me believe it was your fear that did it. That would never have made you give Harding up. Besides, you were not afraid at first, though you may have been afterwards.”
“Afterwards?”
It was her own word, but it had as yet no significance for her.
“After—whatever it was you gave him up for. You gave him up for something.”