“I am afraid—­judging by the result—­that I am not naturally clever at kissing.”

“No, I should think not, indeed.  Then you had better go and do what you are clever at—­eat your dinner.”

“Miss McQuinch:  did you ever see an unfortunate little child get a severe fall, and then, instead of a little kindly petting, catch a sound whacking from its nurse for daring to startle her and spoil its clothes?”

“Well, what is the point of that?”

“You remind me a little of the nurse.  I have had a sort of fall this evening.”

“And now you are going to pretend to be hurt, I suppose; because you dont care to be told that it is your own fault.  That is a common experience with children, too.  I tell you plainly that I dont believe you are hurt at all; though you may not be exactly pleased—­just for the moment.  However, I did not mean to be uncivil.  If you are really sorry, I am at least as sorry.  I have not said all I think.”

“What more?”

“Nothing of any use to say.  I see I am wasting my time here—­and no doubt wasting yours too.”

“Well, I think you have had your turn.  If you are not thoroughly satisfied, pray go on for ten minutes longer:  your feelings do you credit, as the phrase goes.  Still, do not forget that you thought just the same of me a week ago; and that if you had said as much then you might have prevented what has happened.  Giving me a piece of your mind now is of no use except as far as it relieves you.  To Marian or me or anyone else it does no good.  So when you have said your worst, we cannot do better, I think, than set our wits to work about our next move.”

Elinor received this for a moment in dudgeon.  Then she laughed sourly, and said, “There is some sense in that.  I am as much to blame as anybody:  I dont deny it—­if that is any comfort to you.  But as to the next move, you say yourself that it is too late to do anything; and I dont see that you can do much.”

“That is so.  But there are a few things to be faced.  First, I have to set Marian and myself free.”

“How?”

“Divorce her.”

“Divorce!” Elinor looked at him in dismay.  He was unmoved.  Then her gaze fell slowly, and she said:  “Yes:  I suppose you have a right to that.”

“She also.”

“So that she may marry him—­from a sense of duty.  That will be so happy for her!”

“She will have time, before she is free to find out whether she likes him or not.  There will be a great fuss in the family over the scandal.”

“Do you care about that? I dont.”

“No.  However, thats a detail.  Marian will perhaps write to you.  If so, just point out to her that her five hundred a year belongs to her still, and makes her quite independent of him and of me.  That is all, I think.  You need take no pains now to conceal what has happened:  the servants below know it as well as we:  in a week it will be town talk.”