"Richard!" said Alice imploringly—"just think. I know what you say is very important—very true. But for me personally"—she looked round the room with wandering eyes; then found a sudden passionate gesture, pressing back the hair from her brow with both hands—"for me personally—to tell the truth—to face the truth—would be relief—infinite relief! It would kill the fear in which I have lived all these years—kill it forever. It would be better for all of us if we had told the truth—from the beginning. And as for Hester—she must know—you say yourself she must know before long—when she is of age—when she marries—"
Meynell's face took an unconscious hardness.
"Forgive me!—the matter must be left to me. The only person who could reasonably take legal action would be myself—and I shall not take it. I beg you, be advised by me." He bent forward again. "My dear friend!"—and now he spoke with emotion—"in your generous consideration for me you do not know what you are proposing—what an action in the courts would mean, especially at this moment. Think of the party spirit that would be brought into it—the venom—the prejudice—the base insinuations. No!—believe me—that is out of the question—for your sake—and Hester's."
"And your work—your influence?"
"If they suffer—they must suffer. But do not imagine that I shall not defend myself—and you—you above all—from calumny and lies. Of course I shall—in my own way."
There was silence—a dismal silence. At the end of it Meynell stretched out his hand to Alice with a smile. She placed her own in it, slowly, with a look which filled Catharine's eyes once more with tears.
"Trust me!" said Meynell, as he pressed the hand. "Indeed you may." Then he turned to Catharine Elsmere—
"I think Mrs. Elsmere is with me—that she approves?"
"With one reservation." The words came gravely, after a moment's doubt.
His eyes asked her to be frank.