“You call it a little thing?  A little thing?”

“I had forgotten it.  And for you to remember it all these years—­and to cast it up against me—­now—­”

“I haven’t cast anything up against you.”

“You implied you held me responsible for your sin.”

“I don’t hold you responsible for anything.  Not even for that.”

Her face never changed.  She did not take in the meaning of his emphasis.

He continued.  “And, if you want your separation, you shall have it.  Though I did hope that you might consider that six years was about enough of it.”

“I did want it.  But I do not want it now.  When I wrote that letter I had forgotten my promise.”

“You shall have your promise back again if you want it.  I shall not hold you to it, or to anything, if you’d rather not.”

“I can never have my promise back—­I made it to Edie.”

“To Edie?”

“Yes.  A short time before she died.”

His face brightened.

“What did you promise her?” he said softly.

“That I would never leave you.”

“Did she make you promise not to?”

“No.  It did not occur to her that I could leave you.  She did not think it possible.”

“But you did?”

“I thought it possible—­yes.”

“Even then.  There was no reason then.  I had given you no cause.”

“I did not know that.”

“Do you mean that you suspected me—­then?”

“I never accused you, Walter, even in my thoughts.”

“You suspected?”

“I didn’t know.”

“And—­afterwards—­did you suspect anything?”

“No.  I never suspected anything—­afterwards.”

“I see.  You suspected me when you had no cause.  And when I gave you cause you suspected nothing.  I must say you are a very extraordinary woman.”

“I didn’t know,” she answered.

“Who told you?  Or must I not ask that?”

“I cannot tell you.  I would rather not.  I was not told much.  And there are some things that I have a right to know.”

“Well—­”

“Who is this woman?—­the girl you’ve been living with?”

“I’ve no right to tell you—­that.  Why do you want to know?  It’s all over.”

“I must know, Walter.  I have a reason.”

“Can you give me your reason?”

“Yes.  I want to help her.”

“You would—­really—­help her?”

“If I can.  It is my duty.”

“It isn’t in the least your duty.”

“And I want to help you.  That also is my duty.  I want to undo, as far as possible, the consequences of your sin.  We cannot let the girl suffer.”

Majendie was moved by her charity.  He had not looked for charity from Anne.

“If you will give me her name, and tell me where to find her, I will see that she is provided for.”

“She is provided for.”