He would not blame her—he would lay the blame at the door of chance, of fate, of her people. He would think they were forcing this marriage upon her—the mother out of love of Pete, the father out of love of Pete's money, and Nancy out of fear of Ross Christian. He would know that she could not struggle because she could not speak. He would believe she was yielding against her will, in spite of her love, in the teeth of their intention. He would think of her as a victim, as a martyr, as a sacrifice.
It was a deceit—a small deceit; it looked so harmless, too—so innocent, almost humorous, half ridiculous; and she was a woman, and she could not put it away. Love, love, love! It would be her excuse and her forgiveness. She had appealed to Philip himself and in vain. Now she would pretend to go on with her old relations. It was so little to do, and the effects were so certain. In jealousy and in terror Philip would step out of himself and claim her.
She had craft—all hungry things have craft. She had inklings of ambition, a certain love of luxury, and desire to be a lady. To get Philip was to get everything. Love would be satisfied, ambition fulfilled, the aims of refinement reached. Why not risk the great stake?
Nancy came to tidy the room, and Kate said, “Where's Pete all this time, I wonder?”
“Sitting in the fire-seat this half-hour,” said Nancy. “I don't know in the world what's come over the man. He's rocking and moaning there like a cow licking a dead calf.”
“Would he like to come up, think you?”
“Don't ask the man twice if you want him to say no,” said Nancy.
Blushing and stammering, and trying to straighten his black curls, Pete came at Nancy's call.
Kate had few qualms. The wound she had received from Philip had left her conscienceless towards Pete. Yet she turned her head a little sideways as she welcomed him.
“Are you better, then, Kirry?” said Pete timidly.