the whole story. I won't pretend that I have not had my moments of
uneasiness. For instance, I wrote to you to Jersey, and the letter was
returned to me; that came disagreeably, in connection with news I just
then had from London; it was only human to suppose that for some reason
you had talked of going to Jersey, and then had not gone there at all.'

'Grail followed me there, and, failing to find me, of course had the
same thought.'

'And yet, you know, I could think more calmly than was possible for
him. Now tell me all that you wish. What had happened, that this
suspicion fell upon you?'

Thyrza heard a complete and truthful account of all that had passed
between herself and Egremont, from the first meeting in the library to
their parting near Lambeth Bridge.

Then Mrs. Ormonde asked:

'And where is she?'

'If only I knew: She has written to her sister, but without saying
where she is, only that she has been ill, and is safe with people who
are kind to her.'

'And what is your explanation of her disappearance?'

'I believe she could not marry Grail, loving another man.'

The silence that followed seemed very long to the listener. She dreaded
lest they should end their conversation here. In that story of those
meetings and partings, as told by Egremont, there had now and then been
a word, a tone, that seemed to bear meaning yet incredible to her. By
degrees she was realising all that her flight had entailed upon those
she left, things undreamt of hitherto. But the last word of explanation
was still to come. She did not dare to anticipate it, yet her life
seemed to depend upon his saying something more.

'Have you made efforts to find her?' Mrs. Ormonde at length asked.

'Every possible effort.'

'With what purpose?'

'Need I tell you?

'You think it is your duty to offer her reparation for what she has
suffered, because you were unwillingly the cause of it?'

'Yes, if that is the same thing as saying that I love her, and that I
wish to make her my wife.'

'In a sense I suppose it is the same thing. You have been compelled to
think so much of her, that pity and a desire to do your best for an
unhappy girl have come to seem love. Remember that, by your own
admission, you are ill; you cannot judge soundly of anything, even of
your own feelings. You have done a good deal of harm, Walter, though
unintentionally; do you wish to do yet more?'

'How?'

'By binding yourself for life to a poor girl who