Strife muttered something unintelligible, but made no more interruptions.
"Now tell me, Antoinette," said her mother, "exactly how long you have known this man—and what have you and he been doing together?"
"Mother, I can't explain. I know it sounds deceitful and caddish and all that, but it—it wasn't. It was an adventure, just as I've said. I've done something."
The invalid smiled distantly.
"When you are older you will realise the superiority of thought to action. The soul is built of thoughts—actions harden and coarsen it. But we won't discuss that now. Tell me how you and he got to know each other."
"He was the man who was so splendid at East Grinstead station. He told me his name was Smith, because, of course, he didn't want me to know who he really was. Then I met him one morning when I was giving Prince a run in Swites Wood, and then another time when I'd punctured my bicycle, and...."
"Go on, Antoinette."
"Oh, you'll never understand. But he was so different from any one else I'd met. He spoke so differently—about such different things——"
"I can imagine that."
"But he wasn't horrid, mother—I swear he wasn't. He was very quiet, and interesting, and rather unhappy—and I liked him—I liked him awfully."