“I'm not thinking of that,” said Unity.
“But I am.” He waved her disclaimer aside, not appreciating for the moment how immeasurably was she lifted above the plane of personal desire for vengeance. “I am,” he repeated. “She is walking murder. She meant to murder you. She meant to murder Stellamaris. Think of it!” He threw out his arms in a wide gesture. “There's a path down there—round the face of the cliff—”
“I know it,” said Unity. “There 's a bench. I used to sit there.”
“She lured her there. You know—it's sheer above and sheer below and rocks beneath. She played with her, cat and mouse, would have thrown her over, dashed her down, Unity—dashed that precious, beautiful body down on to the rocks! But she did n't. God sent somebody to save her—to save her life that time. But she failed. She will try again. She will work her devilishness against her—against him—against you.”
“I tell you, I don't care what she does to me,” she interrupted roughly. “What the hell does it matter what she does to me?”—It was the aboriginal gutter transcendentalized that spoke—'"Leave me and her out of it. I 've nothing against her. I 'm not a silly fool. If it had n't been for her, I should n't be here living like a lady. I ain't a lady, but I'm supposed to be one. And I should n't have known him, and I should n't have loved him. And I should n't have known my precious one—and I should n't have known you. I should have scrubbed floors and washed up plates in a lodging-house—all I was fit for. I 've nothing against her—nothing. She can do what she likes with me; but with him and her—” She broke off on the up-note.
“Yes, you and I don't matter. We can put our foot on the neck of our own little devils, can't we?”
Somehow he found his hands round Unity's cheeks and his eyes looking into hers; she suffered the nervous clasp gladly, knowing, in her pure girl's heart, that he was a good man, that he loved Stellamaris as she loved John, and that he loved John as she loved Stellamaris. Brother and sister, in a spiritual relation singularly perfect in this imperfect world, they stood, the gentleman of birth and breeding, the artist, the finely fibred man of wide culture, and Unity Blake, whose mother had died of drink in a slum in Notting Hill Gate a year after her father had died in prison, and of whom Miss Lindon despaired of ever making a lady.
There came a twisting of the door handle. They fell apart. Then came a tapping at the door. Herold turned the key and opened. It was Phoebe, elderly and gaunt. She clasped her hands tight in front of her.
“Oh, sir! oh, sir!” she said.
“What's the matter?”