“Adela,” she said, trying to summon some pride, some courage, “I understand. You can’t do anything more. I oughtn’t to have come. It was monstrous, I suppose. But—it’s like that in life. So few people will help. And those that do—well, they get asked for more. I’ll—I’ll manage somehow. It’s all my own fault. I must try to—”
Then Lady Sellingworth turned round. Her white face was very grave, almost stern, like the face of one who was thinking with concentration.
“I’m ready to try to do what I can, Beryl,” she said. “But there’s only one way I can think of. And to take it I shall have to tell the whole truth.”
“About me?”
“About you and myself.”
“Oh—but you couldn’t do that!”
“I believe that I ought to.”
“But—but—to whom?”
“There’s only one person I could possibly speak to, and he’s the finest man I have ever met. He might do something. I’m thinking of Seymour Portman.”
“Adela! But you couldn’t tell him!”