And he had added, after a pause:
“Not that she’d ever have done it. I’m pretty sure of that.”
When Dion had finished, still standing by the fire, Mrs. Clarke said:
“Thank you for remembering it all. It shows your good heart.”
“Oh—please!”
Why didn’t she think about Brayfield?
She turned round and fixed her distressed eyes on him.
“Which is best, to be charitable or to be truthful?” she said, without any vibration of excitement. “De Mortuis—it’s a kindly saying. A true Turk, one of the old Osmanlis, might have said it. If you hadn’t brought me that letter and the message I should probably never have mentioned Brayfield to you again. But as it is I am going to be truthful. I can say honestly peace to Brayfield’s ashes. His death was worthy. Courage he evidently had. But you mustn’t think that because he liked me I ever liked him. Don’t make a mistake. I’m not a nervous suspicious fool of a woman anxiously defending, or trying to defend, her honor—not attacked, by the way. If Lord Brayfield had ever been anything to me I should just be quiet, say nothing. But I didn’t like him. If I had liked him I shouldn’t have burnt his letter. And now”—to Dion’s great astonishment she made slowly the sign of the Cross—“requiescat in pace.”
After a long pause she added:
“Now come and see the other room. I’ll give you Turkish coffee there.”