She still held Lady Sellingworth’s arms.
“I couldn’t have done it! I should have let you go on. I shouldn’t have written—I shouldn’t have spoken! And I have been alone with him. I have let him—I have let him—”
“Beryl!”
“No, no! It isn’t too late! Don’t be afraid!”
“Thank God!” said Lady Sellingworth.
She had no feeling of self-pity now. All her compassion for herself was obscured for the moment in compassion for the girl. The years at last were helping her, those years which so often had brought her misery.
“But what am I to do? I’m afraid of him. Oh, do help me.”
“Hush, Beryl! What can he do? There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“But I’ve nobody. I’m all alone. Fanny is no use. And he means—he won’t give it up. I know he won’t give it up. I was always afraid in a way. I always had suspicions, but I trampled them down. Dick Garstin told me, but I would not listen. Dick Garstin showed me what he was.”
“How could he?”