“Amazing!” exclaimed John, very much discomfited.

“And she tried hard to make him promise that he would keep the whole thing a profound secret, especially from you; and so of course he declined, for he felt that you must be the proper person to tell it to, though we do not know why.  He reasoned with her, but he could make nothing of her.”

“Perhaps she wants to bring it on again,” said John.  “What a pity he returned the letters before Joe had sailed!”

“No, it was the right thing to do.  And, John, if love is really the sacred, strong, immortal passion made out by all the poets and novelists, I cannot see, somehow, that putty ought to stand in its light.  It ought to have a soul above putty.”

“With all my heart,” said John; “but you see in this case it hadn’t.”

“It would be an astonishingly disadvantageous thing for our family if she ran away and married him just now, when Valentine has been making himself so ridiculous.  But there is no doubt we could bring it on again, and have it done if we chose,” said Emily.

John looked at her with surprise.

“But then,” she continued, “I should say that the man ought to be thought of as well as herself, and she might prove a thoroughly unsuitable, foolish wife, who would soon tire of him.  SHE might be very miserable also.  She would not have half the chance of happiness that an ordinary marriage gives.  And, again, Santo Domingo is notoriously unhealthy.  She might die, and if we had caused the marriage, we should feel that.”

“Are you addressing this remarkable speech to yourself or to the chair?” said John, laughing.

“To the chair.  But, if I am the meeting, don’t propose as a resolution that this meeting is tete montee.  John, you used to say of me before I married that I was troubled with intuitions.”

“I remember that I did.”

“You meant that I sometimes saw consequences very clearly, and felt that the only way to be at peace was to do the right thing, having taken some real trouble to find out what it was.”

“I was not aware that I meant that.  But proceed.”

“When Laura was here in the autumn she often talked to Liz about little Peter Melcombe’s health, and said she believed that his illness at Venice had very much shaken his constitution.  His mother, she said, never would allow that there had been much the matter with him, though she had felt frightened at the time.  It was the heat, Laura thought, that had been too much for him.  Now, you know if that poor little fellow were to die, Valentine, who has nothing to live on, and nothing to do, is his heir.  What a fine thing it would be for him!”

“I don’t see yet what you mean.”

“Mrs. Melcombe found out before Giles left Melcombe all about these letters.  She came into the room, and Laura, who seems to have been filled with a ridiculous sort of elation to think that somebody had really loved her, betrayed it in her manner, and between her and Giles it was confessed.  Mrs. Melcombe was very wroth.”