"Go, Mrs. Barnes, and ask your husband's forgiveness! What will come of it I do not know. But you, at least, will have done something to set yourself right—with God."
The Christian and the priest had spoken; the low voice in its intensity had seemed to ring through the quiet sun-flooded room. Daphne rose, trembling with resentment and antagonism.
"It is you, then, Mr. French, who make it impossible for me to discuss—to help. I shall have to see if I can find some other means of carrying out my purpose."
There was a voice outside. Daphne turned.
"Who is that?"
French ran to the glass door that opened on the veranda, and trying for an ordinary tone, waved somebody back who was approaching from without. Elsie came quickly round the corner of the house, calling to the new-comer.
But Daphne saw who it was and took her own course. She, too, went to the window, and, passing French, she stepped into the veranda.
"Roger!"
A man hurried through the dusk. There was an exclamation, a silence. By this time French was on the lawn, his wife's quivering hand in his. Daphne retreated slowly into the study and Roger Barnes followed her.
"Leave them alone," said French, and putting an arm round his wife he led her resolutely away, out of sound and sight.