“Darling,” he said, “I was awfully cut up.  Tell me about the poor little beggar.”

He held her closer.  His breath was like flame against her cheek.  When he spoke he coughed—­a short hard cough.

She pushed against his arm and broke from him.  Then she turned.  “Don’t speak of him!  Don’t speak of him!”

“I won’t, dear, if you’d rather not.  Only don’t think I didn’t care.”

“Don’t tell me you cared!” She held her arms outstretched, the hands clenched.  Her small body was tense with passion.  “Don’t tell me.  It’s a lie.  You never cared.  You hated him from the first.  You kept me from him lest I should love him better than you.  You would have taken me away and left him here.  You were cruel.  And you knew it.  You stayed away because you knew it.  You were afraid, and no wonder.  I know why you did it.  You thought I didn’t love you.  Was that the way to make me love you?”

“Molly,” he said faintly, “I didn’t know.  I never thought you’d take it to heart that way.  Come—­” He held out his hand.

She too had said “Come.”  She remembered the answer:  “Impossible.”

“No,” she said.  “I won’t.  I can’t.  I don’t want to have anything to do with you.  What were you doing all those days when he was dying?”

He slunk from her, conscience-stricken.  “My dear Molly,” he said, “I’m awfully sorry, but you’re a damned little fool.  You’d better hold your tongue before you say something you’ll be sorry for.”

“I’m going to hold my tongue.  If I pleased myself I should never speak to you again.”

Ah, she had said something very like that not long before.

He sighed heavily.  Then he drew a chair up to the fire and lowered himself carefully into it.  He was shivering.

“All right,” he muttered between chattering teeth.  “Get me some brandy, will you?  You can do that without speaking.”

“Nevill—­what’s the matter?”

“Nothing.  I’ve got an infernally bad chill coming here, that’s all.”

She flew for the brandy.

Yes; there was no mistake about it.  It was an infernally bad chill, and it saved him.

Whether Mrs. Wilcox was right or wrong in her conjecture, the Tyson baby had shown infinite delicacy in retiring from a world where he had caused so many complications.  He had done mischief enough in his short life, and I believe to the last Tyson owed the little beggar a grudge.  He had spoiled the complexion of the loveliest woman in Leicestershire.  At any rate Tyson thought he had.  Other people perhaps knew better.

If she had been thin and pale before the baby’s death, she was thinner and paler now.  She had the look of a woman who carries a secret about with her.  She trembled and blushed when you spoke to her.  And when she had ceased to blush she took to dabbing on paint and powder.  It was just like her folly to let everybody see she was pining.  And the more she pined the more she painted.  Ah, she might well hide her face!