"You mean"—she said abruptly—"that I really ought to go at once—to-morrow."
"Wouldn't it be best? It troubles me to think of you here—under the shadow—of this thing."
"I see!—I see! All right. You are going to London to-morrow morning?"
She had risen, and was moving towards the door.
"Yes, I shall go to the Rectory first for news. And then on to the station."
She paused a moment.
"And if—if she—I don't know what to call her—if she lives?"
"Well, then—I must be free," he said, gravely; adding immediately—"She passed for fifteen years after she left me as the wife of an Italian I used to know. It would be very quickly arranged. I should provide for her—and keep my boy. But all that is uncertain."
"Yes, I understand." She held out her hand. "Cousin Philip—I am awfully sorry for you. I—I realized—somehow—only after I'd come down here—that you must have had—things in your life—to make you unhappy. And you've been so nice—so awfully nice to me! I just want to thank you—with all my heart."
And before he could prevent her, she had seized his hands and kissed them. Then she rushed to the door, turning to show him a face between tears and laughter.
"There!—I've paid you back!"