confession.

They shook hands, and he seated himself beside her. A clump of shrubs
hid the windows of the house, no path broke the smooth stretch of green;
they were alone, free from the fear of interruption.

"I hope you feel better this morning," said Teresa primly. She was
embroidering a large entwined monogram on a square of green velvet. The
monogram was Peignton's own, and the square was designed for the back of
a blotter for his writing table. He had watched its progress from the
first stitches onward, and had given his opinion on contrasting shades.
His face twisted with pain as he watched the sweep of the needle with
the long brown thread.

"Thank you, yes. I am better.--I was--very tired!"

Teresa sewed on, her eyes downcast, the needle rhythmically lifting and
falling to take up another neat, accurate stitch. Her low muslin collar
showed the line of the young bending throat.

Peignton's eyes softened into tenderness as he watched her. He
stretched out his hand, and intercepted another upward sweep.

"Dear! Put that down... We've got to have this out... There is so
much that we have to say to each other, Teresa!"

Teresa disengaged her hand, folded her work, and turned a resolutely
composed face.

"Why need we say anything at all?"

"_Why_?" He stared at her in perplexity. "You ask me that when you
know... you have seen..."

"I must forget. We must both forget. I mustn't judge you for... for
what happened _then_. I think it will be best if we never speak of it
again."

Peignton was silent, stricken dumb by amazement, and the paralysing
feeling of helplessness which Grizel had experienced at a similar
moment. The crass certainty of Teresa's common sense appeared at this
moment the most baffling of barriers. He stared at her hopelessly for a
long minute, before making his reply.

"That is impossible. There could be no peace for either of us. In
justice to myself, I must explain. It seems an extraordinary thing to
say, but it is the simple truth that until I came down here--until a
couple of days ago, I did not know that I loved Lady Cassandra. Only
yesterday morning I had decided to make an excuse to go home, to put
myself out of temptation; then, an hour later, I saw her, as it seemed,
dying before my eyes, and I forgot everything else. It was wrong, of
course, confoundedly unkind,--humiliating for you. I apologise with all
my soul, Teresa, but can't you see how inevitable