I tried to reassure her. But it was no good."

And again she narrated, now with difficulty forcing herself to seem calm
and unembarrassed, exactly what had happened that day between Beryl Van
Tuyn and herself, till she came to the moment when she had turned away
from Beryl and had gone to stand by the fire. Then once more she paused
and seemed seized by hesitation. As Sir Seymour said nothing, did not
help her out, at last she went on:

"Then I thought of you. I had never meant to tell anyone but Beryl, but
as _I_ could do nothing to help her, and as she is perhaps, really in
danger--she is only a girl, and she spoke of the fascination of fear--I
felt I must make a further effort to do something. And I thought of
you."

"Why was that?" asked Sir Seymour, turning towards her, but not
impulsively.

"Because I knew if anyone could stop this thing you could."

"That was your reason?"

"That--and--and I knew that I could never tell all this--about myself, I
mean--to anyone but you. For ten years no one has known it."

"You felt you could tell me!"

The way in which he said those words was so inexpressive that Lady
Sellingworth did not know what was the feeling behind them, whether it
was astonishment, indignation, or something quite different.

"I--I didn't want to--" She almost faltered, again full of fear, almost
of terror. "I was afraid to. But I felt I could, and I had told Beryl
so."

"I wonder what made you feel you could," he said, still in the same
curiously inexpressive way.

She said nothing. She leaned back on the sofa and her hands began to
move restlessly, nervously. She plucked at her dress, put a hand to the
ruby pinned in the front of her bodice, lifted the hand to her face,
laid it on the back of the sofa.

"What was it?" he said.

"I hardly feel I can tell you," she said.

"Then don't, if you would rather not. But I should be glad to know."

"Would you? I told Beryl the reason."

She felt forced to say that, forced to speak that bit of truth.

"Then, if so, cannot you tell me?"

"I said--I said I could tell you because I knew you were fond of me."

"Ah--that was it!"

He was silent. At last he said:

"I should like to ask you a question. May I?"

"Yes--please do."

"Are you very fond of Beryl Van Tuyn?"

"Oh, no!"

"Aren't you at all fond of her?"

"I'm afraid not. No. But I like her much better than I did."

"Since you have done something for her?"

"Perhaps it is tha