“My dear, I can’t imagine it. I’d rather not. I should certainly not be calm. I’m an impetuous person who is bound to let off steam, and there would be a considerable amount of steam on that occasion, but I’m older than you, and have seen more of the world, so that perhaps it would come easier—after the first explosion—to be sorry for them as well as myself.”
“Why should one be sorry?”
“Because they are in the wrong, and are bringing sorrow on others, whereas you are the injured martyr, who is sinned against. There’s considerable balm in the position—for those who like it. How do you suppose poor Dane will feel at the prospect of his next interview with you?”
Teresa’s face quivered again.
“He hasn’t wanted many interviews lately. We’ve hardly been alone an hour since we came here. I suppose I—should have suspected... but I didn’t. He has never been demonstrative, but he chose me, he said he loved me. I trusted him.”
There was pathos in the lingering on those last words. Grizel made a little crooning sound of tenderness, and stretched out a consoling hand, but Teresa ignored it, and rose slowly to her feet.
“Thank you. You’ve told me all I wanted to know. And I’m grateful to you for not telling your husband. Please don’t mention anything to a single person. The less that is said about it the easier it will be to—”
“To—?” Grizel’s eyes dilated. She sat upright on the sofa, her whole body a-quiver with eagerness. “To what, Teresa?”
“To put things right,” said Teresa, and marched stolidly from the room.