"Well, I'm glad he had the decency to realize he'd behaved shabbily. But of course, whatever sort of fool he may be, he is a gentleman, Mary; I always said so." John yawned again. "I think I'm going to have a nap now."
"All right. I'll bring you some tea about four."
She left the room.
Then he did not know. Or, if he had seen, his temporary seizure had driven all recollection from his mind. And she must go on, hourly expecting the possible return of his memory.
Of course it was absurd to make a fuss. It really was nothing—a kiss in a cornfield on a hot day. Lots of farmers' wives might have done it—only Mary was not lots of farmers' wives. She was Mary Robson of Anderby Wold and her conduct must be without blemish. And then John was not like lots of farmers. His trust in her was as absolute as his loyalty to her was unquestionable. Any small lapse from propriety became doubly a breach of confidence. And then—and then, it was not so much what she had done as what she was ready to do....
She passed through the quiet house. In the kitchen Violet was singing as she cleaned up after a day's baking.
Mary returned to the dining-room and closed the door. As she turned the handle she felt she was shutting herself up with a swarm of pitiless thoughts that danced round her like gnats on a summer day, leaving no respite.
David had written. Oh, yes, he had written all right. She had his letter now in her desk in the drawing-room—a most proper letter that would fully clear her character should her husband accuse her and she wished to prove her innocence. Of course he hadn't meant it for that. David had written just because he was David and couldn't leave well alone—must all the time be spoiling things by trying to make them better....
She knew it by heart. She knew the characteristic writing with its finely formed letters, impetuously looped, the upward sweep of the lines—even the smudge at the end where he had blotted it too hastily. He never could do anything quite perfectly.
"Dear Mrs. Robson,