“Forgive me!” Father Robertson interrupted, rather abruptly. “What was your intention then? What did you mean to tell Mrs. Leith if you saw her?”
“Of his great wretchedness, of his broken life—I suppose I—I should have trusted to my instinct what to do when I saw her.”
“Ah!”
“But I can leave it to you,” she said, but still with a faint note of hesitation, of doubt. “You know her.”
“Yes, I know her.”
He paused. Then, with an almost obstinate firmness, a sort of pressure, he added, “Have I your permission—I may not do it—to tell Mrs. Leith that her husband has been unfaithful to her with some one in Constantinople?”
Lady Ingleton slightly reddened; she looked down and hesitated.
“It may be necessary if your purpose in coming here is to be achieved,” said Father Robertson, still with pressure.
“You may do whatever you think best,” she said, with a sigh.
He got up to go.