"Think what?"
"Must think I married again. Because I am Mrs. Prichard."
"Perhaps she does think so. Why are you Mrs. Prichard? Don't tell me now if it tires you to talk."
"It does not tire me. It is easier to talk than to think. I took the name of Prichard because I wanted it all forgotten."
"About your husband having been—in prison?"
"Oh no, no! I was not ashamed about that. He was wrong, but it was only money. It was my son.... Oh yes—he was transported too—but that was after.... It was only a theft. I cannot talk about my son." Gwen felt that she shuddered, and that danger lay that way. The fever might return. She cast about for anything that would divert the conversation from that terrible son. Dave and Dolly, naturally.
"Stop a minute," said she. "You have never seen Dave's letter that he wrote to say he knew all about it." And she went away to the front room to get it.
A peaceful joint was turning both ways at the right speed by itself. The cat, uninterested, was consulting her own comfort, and the cricket was persevering for ever in his original statement. Saucepans were simmering in conformity, with perfect faith in the reappearance of the human disposer of their events, in due course. Dave's letter lay where Gwen had left it, between the flower-pots on the window-shelf. She picked it up and went back with it to the bedside.
"You must have your spectacles and read it yourself. Can you? Where shall I find them?"
"I think my Ruth has put them in the watch-pocket with my watch, over my head here." She could make no effort to reach them, but Gwen drew out both watch and glasses. "What a pretty old watch!" said she.