Mrs. Lakeman looked at her old lover triumphantly. "I felt," she said, "that I must have you to myself for a little while. I couldn't bear the presence even of that dear child." Her listener fidgeted a little, but said nothing. "Gerald," her voice trembled, but in the tail of her eye there lurked amusement, "have you hated me all these years?"
"Why should I? You did what you thought was right, and so did I." There was a shade of impatience in his manner, though it was fairly polite.
She felt in an instant that tragedy would be thrown away upon him; she changed her note and tried a suspicion of comedy. "I would have stuck to you through anything else," she said, with a shake of her head and a smile that she meant to be pathetic. "I would have gone to perdition for you with pleasure—in this world."
"Quite so."
"I often think you people who do away with the next get a great pull over us. You see it's going to be such a long business, by all accounts."
"Yes." He looked bored: this sort of joke did not amuse him.
"I couldn't help myself. I couldn't break my father's heart and bring a scandal on the diocese; I was obliged to do what I did," she said, with a little burst.
"Of course, I quite understand that," he answered; "and, to be frank, I think it would be better not to discuss it any more."
"You will always be dear to me," she went on, as if she had not heard him; "and when Cyril told me you were at Chidhurst, I felt that I must write and ask you to come and see me. I nearly took a house there, but it fell through." Mr. Vincent remembered Sir George Stringer's remark, and said nothing. "Perhaps I should have been more eager if I had known—and yet I don't think I could have borne it; I don't think I could have spent a summer there with you and—and—your wife"—she stopped, as if the last word were full of tragedy, and repeated, in a lower tone—"with you and your wife only a mile off. I couldn't bear to see her," and quite suddenly she burst into tears.