Was he tricking her? Trying to force her to a confession? She bent above the roses. This was too absurd. Like a scene out of a novel. And it was happening to her—Mary.
She spoke very quietly.
"Yes. He came to call on Monday afternoon."
"Oh, the day I was taken ill. I thought you were out then."
"I must go quietly here," she thought. "Then it will be all right. He may not have seen. He may never remember."
"I was out," she said. "So he came up the fields to find me and apologize. He thought quite rightly that he had behaved rather badly, coming to stay with us and making an upset in the village."
There was a sound from the bed. Mary dared not turn round. She awaited the sharp exclamation of surprise and recollections, the ensuing scene—which must be avoided at all costs because John had to be kept quiet.
The sound swelled and died.
John had yawned.
His drowsy voice came again from the bed.