The Treverts were a hot-tempered race. Lady Margaret’s unfinished sentence seemed to infuriate the girl.
“Do you think I’d marry Robin Greve as long as I thought he knew the mystery of Hartley’s death!” she cried passionately. “I was willing to give up my self-respect once to save us from ruin, but I won’t do it again. I’m not surprised to find you thinking I am ready to marry Robin and live happy ever after on poor Hartley’s money. But I’ve not sunk so low as that! If you ever mention this to me again, Mother, I promise you I’ll go away and never come back!”
“My dear child,” temporized Lady Margaret, eyebrows raised in protest at this outburst, “of course, it shall be as you wish. I only thought ...”
But Mary Trevert was not listening. She leant on the mantel-shelf, her dark head in her hands, and she murmured:
“The tragedy of it! My God, the tragedy of it!”
Lady Margaret twisted the rings on her long white fingers.
“The tragedy of it, my dear,” she said, “is that you have sent away the man you love at a time when you will never need him so badly again ...”
There was a discreet tapping at the door.
“Come in!” said Lady Margaret.
Bude appeared.