“He did. It’s there in the studio—that horrible picture, the real man, the man I couldn’t see. But I must always have known what he was. Something in me must always have known!”
She seemed to make a violent effort to recover her self-control. She dropped her hands, took out a handkerchief and wiped the tears from her eyes. Then she went to the sofa where her muff was lying, drew out the letter that was in it, went over to the fireplace and threw the letter into the flames.
“Adela,” she said, “I’ve been a beast to you. You know—my last visit to you. You’re brave. I suppose I always felt there was something fine in you, but I didn’t know how fine you could be. All I can do in return is this—never to tell. It isn’t much, is it?”
“It’s quite enough, Beryl.”
“There isn’t anything else I can do, is there?”
Her eyes were asking a question. Lady Sellingworth met them calmly, earnestly. She knew what the girl was thinking at that moment. She was thinking of Alick Craven.
“No, there isn’t anything else.”
“Are you quite sure, Adela? I owe you a great deal. I may forget it. One never knows. And I suppose I’m horribly selfish. But if I make you a promise now I’ll keep it. If you want me to promise anything, tell me now.”
“But I don’t want anything from you,” said Lady Sellingworth.
She said it very quietly, without emotion. There was even a coldness in her voice.