She flashed a quick, defiant glance.
"To me."
"To Adrian," I insisted, smitten with a queer inspiration. "He sinned—the unpardonable sin, if you like. But he expiated it. He's expiating it now. And you love him. And it's for his sake, not yours, that you shrink from public disgrace. You were so irrevocably wrapped up in him"—I pursued my advantage—"that you feel yourself a partner in his guilt. Which means that you love him still."
She raised a stark, terror-stricken face. I touched her shoulder. Then, all of a sudden, she collapsed, and broke into an agony of sobs and tears. I drew her to a desolate rustic bench and put my arm round her and let her sob herself out.
After that we did not speak of Adrian.
CHAPTER XXIV
At last news came from Havre of the end of the preposterous voyage.
"Crossing to-night. Coming straight to you. Send car to meet us Reading. Local trains beastly. Both fit as elephants. Love to all.
"JAFFERY."