It was the first time Jane had seen him alone for more than a month. He looked thin and ill.
Jane loved him. She had loved him through everything. He might have killed Oliver; it made no difference to her caring for him.
But she hoped he hadn't.
He came into the drawing-room. Jane remembered that other night, when Oliver—poor Oliver—had been vexed to find him there. Poor Oliver. Poor Oliver. But Jane couldn't really care. Not really, only gently, and in a way that didn't hurt. Not as if Gideon were dead and shut away from everything. Not as if she herself were.
Jane didn't pretend. As Lady Pinkerton would say, the claims of Truth were inexorable.
Gideon came in quickly, looking grave and worried, as if he had something on his mind.
Jane said, 'Arthur, please tell me. Did you knock Oliver down that night?'
He stood and stared at her, looking astonished and startled.
Then he said, slowly, 'Oh, I see. You mean, am I going to admit that I did, when I am accused…. If there's no other way out, I am…. It will be all right, Jane,' he said very gently. 'You needn't be afraid.'
Jane didn't understand him.