She went on a little incoherently; so many ideas cropped up to be gathered instantly, and wreathed into the sequence of her thought.  “Mother said people would talk if I didn’t take care.  She thought Sir Peter—­poor old Sir Peter—­do you remember his funny red face, and his throat—­all turkey’s wattles?—­because he said I was the prettiest woman in Leicestershire.  I don’t see much harm in that, you know.  Anyhow, he can’t very well do it again—­now. Perhaps—­she thought I oughtn’t to have gone about quite so much with Louis.”

“Why did you, Molly?  It was a mistake.”

“I wonder—­Well, it was all my fault.”

“No; it was Stanistreet’s.  He knew what he was about.”

“It was mine.  I liked him.”

“What did you see to like in him?” (He really had some curiosity on that point.)

“I liked him because he was your friend—­the best friend you ever had.  I hated the other men that used to come.  And when you were away I felt somehow as if—­as if—­he was all that was left of you.  But that was afterwards.  I think I liked him first of all because he liked you.”

“How do you know it was me he liked?”

“Oh, it was; I know.  Whatever other people thought, he always understood.  Do you see?  We used to talk about you, every day I think, till just the last—­and then, he knew what I was thinking.  Then he was sorry when baby died.  I can never forget that.”

(Inconceivable!  Had she never for an instant understood?  Ah, well, if he had been so transfigured in her sight, she might well idealize Stanistreet.)

She went on impetuously, with inextricable confusion of persons and events.  “Nevill—­I wasn’t kind to him.  They said I didn’t care—­and I did—­I did!  It nearly broke my heart.  Only I was afraid you’d think I loved him better than you, and so—­I didn’t take any notice of him.  I thought he wouldn’t mind—­he was so little, you see; and then I thought some day I could tell him.  Oh, Nevill—­do you think he minded?”

He bowed his head.  He had not a word to say.  He was trying to realize this thing.  To keep his worthless love, she had given up everything, even to the supreme sacrifice of her motherhood.

Her fingers clutched the counterpane, working feverishly.  She had had something else to say.  But she was afraid to say it, to speak of that unspeakable new thing, her hidden hope of motherhood.  He covered her hands with his to keep them still.

“You see it was all right, as it happened.”

“Yes—­as it happened.  But I think it was a little hard on poor old Stanistreet.”

“Sometimes I wonder if it was fair.  He used to say things; but I didn’t take them in at the time.  I didn’t understand; and somehow now, I feel as if it had never happened.  Perhaps it wasn’t quite fair—­but then I didn’t think.  I wonder why he’s never been to see me.”

“Can’t say, Molly.”