Her voice was of that peculiar kind which you never hear issuing from between the lips of any but an Englishwoman, and from but few of them. Sweet, soft, gentle, yet incisive and clear. It may seem ridiculous--one can only speak of one's own experience--but I have never known it to be a possession of any but a good woman. It is apt, when I hear it, to have a most absurd effect upon me--for some occult reason, which I do not pretend to understand, it makes me go ashamed all over.
"May I ask why she left you?"
She flushed, though very slightly; and, perhaps unconsciously, she drew herself up straighter. I saw that, unwittingly, I had rubbed against a raw.
"Did she not tell you?"
Jane Parsons had not told me. I said so, though I did not think it necessary to explain that I had got rid of her before she had had a chance to get as far.
She hesitated, as if mentally selecting the fittest words.
"Jane Parsons left me because I was in trouble."
At once I perceived my opportunity. I saw what it was she meant, though I pretended innocence.
"In trouble? Indeed? Was there illness in the house?"
"There was worse than illness. To do Jane justice, I do not think she would have left me merely because there was illness in the house."