we can't get what
we want, but it's worth while to try. It is not merely the money--the
less you dwell on that the better. Seriously, I think it would be very
wrong that, through any fastidiousness of yours, David's memory should
not be cleared if it is possible to clear it."

The last shot had this time reached the mark. After a few minutes'
silence Rose said in a very low voice:

"But then, what can I do about it?" He felt that she was hurt, but he
knew he had gained his point.

"I don't think you can do anything at this moment but allow me a free
hand; I could not do what is necessary without your permission and your
trust--and, presently, let me compare notes with you freely. I know what
your judgment is worth when you can get rid of those scruples."

"Very well."

But still she did not turn round. Indeed, the wounds in her mind were
too deep and too fresh to make the subject give her anything but
quivering pain. It was impossible that Edmund should suspect half of
what she felt. He naturally concluded that much of her present suffering
showed how unconquerably Rose's love for Sir David had outlived the
strain put on it. To Rose it would have been much simpler if it had been
so. But in fact part of the trial to Rose was the doubt of her own past
love, and of her own present loyalty. Had she ever truly loved David
while he was still her hero "_sans peur et sans reproche_," could that
love have been killed at all? So much anxiety to be sure of having
forgiven, so much self-reproach for the failure of her marriage, such an
acute, overwhelming sense of shame, and such shrinking from all that was
ugly and low, were intermixed and confused in poor Rose's mind that it
was no wonder even Edmund, with all his tact and his tenderness,
blundered at times.

They were quite silent for some moments. Edmund wanted to see her face
but he could not. Presently she looked into the glass over the
chimney-piece, and in the glass he saw with remorse a little tear about
to fall.

"I think I've caught cold," she murmured to herself. Producing a tiny
handkerchief she seemed to apply it to her nose, and so caught that one
little tear. Her movements were wonderfully graceful, but the man
looking at her did not think of that. What he thought was:--How exactly
she was herself and no one else. How could she have that child's
simplicity of hers, and her amazing power of seeing through a stone
wall? How could she be a saint and have all a