find that the woman whom you thought so much of, and whose society gave you so much pleasure (I know the times we passed together were as pleasant to you as they were to me), should suddenly without warning appear in a totally different light, and in a light which must have seemed to you mean and sordid.  The discovery that I was going to have a baby threw me suddenly down from the pedestal on which you had placed me; your idol was broken, and your feelings—­for you are one of those men who feel deeply—­got the better of you, and you indulged in a few incautious words in your church.

’I thought of these things sometimes, not often, I admit, in the little London lodging where I lived till my baby was born, seeing my gown in front getting shorter, and telling lies to good Mrs. Dent about the husband whom I said was abroad, whom I was expecting to return.  That was a miserable time, but we won’t talk of it any more.  When Father O’Grady showed me the letter that you wrote him, I forgave you in a way.  A woman forgives a man the wrongs he does when these wrongs are prompted by jealousy, for, after all, a woman is never really satisfied if a man is not a little jealous.  His jealousy may prove inconvenient, and she may learn to hate it and think it an ugly thing and a crooked thing, but, from her point of view, love would not be complete without it.

’I smiled, of course, when I got your letter telling me that you had been to your sisters to ask them if they would take me as a schoolmistress in the convent, and I walked about smiling, thinking of your long innocent drive round the lake.  I can see it all, dear man that you are, thinking you could settle everything, and that I would return to Ireland to teach barefooted little children their Catechism and their A, B, C. How often has the phrase been used in our letters!  It was a pretty idea of yours to go to your sisters; you did not know then that you cared for me—­you only thought of atonement.  I suppose we must always be deceived.  Mr. Poole says self-deception is the very law of life.  We live enveloped in self-deception as in a film; now and again the film breaks like a cloud and the light shines through.  We veil our eyes, for we do not like the light.  It is really very difficult to tell the truth, Father Gogarty; I find it difficult now to tell you why I wrote all these letters.  Because I liked you?  Yes, and a little bit because I wished you to suffer; I don’t think I shall ever get nearer the truth than that.  But when I asked you to meet us abroad, I did so in good faith, for you are a clever man, and Mr. Poole’s studies would please you.  At the back of my mind I suppose I thought to meet him would do you good; I thought, perhaps, that he might redeem you from some conventions and prejudices.  I don’t like priests; the priest was the only thing about you I never liked.  Was it in some vain, proselytizing idea that I invited you?  Candidly, I don’t know, and I don’t