“Mary, you have not yet answered me; am I to tell you about it or not?”
“You can tell me what you like; I have no power to prevent you from speaking. But I give you a fair warning. I know, and it would be useless to try to hide it, that you have great power over me, and that I could make any sacrifice, and do anything within reason for you, and be glad to do it. But if you go too far—if you attempt to work on my feelings about this—this person, or try to make me think that he is not—what I think him, I shall simply get up and walk out of the room.”
“You need not have said all that, Mary—I am not trying to work on your feelings. I simply wanted to tell you what happened, and—how he came to be mixed up with it.”
As the other did not reply, she began her story, and related what had happened at the Travers' dinner-party faithfully; although she was as unable now to give a reason for her own strange behaviour as she had been to answer Captain Horton when he had asked her what she had to say to him.
At length she paused.
“Have you finished?” said Mary sharply, but the sharpness this time did not have the true ring.
“No. If your name was mentioned, Mary, must I omit that part?—because I wish to tell you everything just as it happened.”
“You can tell me what you like so long as you observe my conditions.”
But when the story was all finished she only remarked, although speaking now without any real or affected asperity:
“I am really sorry for your friend Mrs. Chance. I could not wish an enemy a greater misfortune than to be tied for life to such a one as Merton. Poor country girl, ignorant of the world—what a terrible mistake she made!”