"Well, of course. How could I help it? You can't put your fingers in your ears when you're holding up six brooms and a mop. I heard every word. And I don't care! I don't care a scrap! Oh, I am so glad!"
"Glad?" Lettice repeated. She had not known quite what to expect; certainly not this. How the child's eyes were sparkling!
"Well, of course!" she cried. "Didn't you hear? Didn't you see what he was like? Oh! now I know that's all right I don't care about anything else—I don't care what happens, so long as that doesn't!"
She flung herself down on the rug with a tempestuous sigh, and tried to dry her eyes on a wisp of lace. That proving inadequate, she rummaged through half a dozen pockets and dragged out a dingy red square which had evidently been used as an oil rag. She held it out by the corners. "Oh dear, I must have stolen Turner's—oh dear, I wish I could manage to hit something between a doily and a duster—never mind, a hanky's a hanky," said she, and blew her nose and dried her tears forthwith. Then, looking up sharply, "Lettice! why don't you say something? Aren't you pleased too?"
"O-oh, oh yes," said Lettice hastily; "only you see I'd had time to get over it before you came."
"I shan't get over it—I shan't ever get over it," murmured Dorothea, nestling round to gaze into the fire. "You don't know how awful it's been to feel that on me. I'd rather I killed him than see that woman—Do you know, Lettice, I do think there must be a God after all. I didn't ever use to, but ever since that Olympia day I've been praying, oh! so hard, that He'd save Denis—I didn't see how even God could stop him then, but there wasn't anything else I could do, and I just had to do something. And now you see he has. He didn't tell you anything about how it happened?" Lettice shook her head. "Oh, well, that doesn't really matter, it's his being saved that counts," said Dorothea, relapsing again into one of her boneless attitudes, and smiling rosily over clasped hands into the fire.
"Did you hear—" began Lettice.
"What he said about me? Oh yes. Well, of course I'd love to have him forgive me, but I know he couldn't possibly, and anyway I don't matter about," said Dorothea, her voice softened into dreams. "It's him—it's him. It does mean such a lot, Lettice! It isn't only that he is what he used to be, what I thought he never could be again; it's ever so much more than that. Denis wasn't made to think of women as he thought of—of me and Mrs. Byrne. He was made to marry, Lettice. Can't you see how perfectly sweet he'd be to his wife?—yes, and to his boys and girls too; how he'd love them (I expect he'd have a pet little girl, and call her Letty), and how they'd all adore him? He's one of those men who—who only truly mellow in their own homes. If he could only find some nice girl who'll love him—no, not better than me, nobody ever could do that, but well enough to make up to him for the horrid little wretch I've been—I wish you would, Lettice, but I'm afraid that's past praying for."
"Me?" said Lettice. "I don't think that would do."
"Why not?" demanded Dorothea. Lettice failing to reply at once, she whisked round suddenly, with an eel-like twist. "Why do you say it like that? Why aren't you gladder? Is there anything wrong? There is, there is! Oh, Lettice, what is it?"