“She’s here, living in Scale.”

There was a pause before Edith answered.  Anne judged from the quiet of her manner that this was not the first time that she had heard of the return.

“Well, dear, after all, if she is, what does it matter?  She must live somewhere.”

“I should have thought that for her own sake it was a pity to have chosen a town where she was so well known.”

“Oh well, that’s her own affair.  I suppose she argues that most people here know the worst; and that’s always a comfort.”

“Oh, for all they appear to care—­” Her face became tragic, and she lost her unnatural control.  “I can’t understand it.  I never saw such people.  She’s received as if nothing had happened.”

“By her own people.  It’s decent of them not to cast her off.”

“Oh, as for decency, they don’t seem to have a shred of it amongst them.  And the Hannays are not her own people.  I thought I should be safe in going there after what you told me.  And it was there I met her.”

“I know.  They were most distressed about it.”

“And yet they received her, too, as if nothing had happened.”

“Because nothing can happen now.  They got rid of her when she was dangerous.  She isn’t dangerous any more.  On the contrary, I believe her great idea now is to be respectable.  I suppose they’re trying to give her a lift up.  You must admit it’s nice of them.”

“You think them nice?”

“I think that’s nice of them.  It’s the sort of thing they do.  They’re kind people, if they’re not the most spiritual I have met.”

“You may call it kindness, I call it shocking indifference.  They’re worse than the Ransomes.  I don’t believe the Ransomes know what’s decent.  The Hannays know, but they don’t care.  They’re all dreadful people; and their sympathy with each other is the most dreadful thing about them.  They hold together and stand up for each other, and are ‘kind’ to each other, because they all like the same low, vulgar, detestable things.  That’s why Mr. Hannay married Mrs. Hannay, and Mr. Ransome married Lady Cayley’s sister.  They’re all admirably suited to each other, but not, my dear Edie, to you or me.”

“They’re certainly not your sort, I admit.”

“Nor yours either.”

“No, nor mine either,” said Edith, smiling.  “Poor Anne, I’m sorry we’ve let you in for them.”

“I’m not thinking only of myself.  The terrible thing is that you should be let in, too.”

“Oh, me—­how can they harm me?”

“They have harmed you.”

“How?”

“By keeping other people away.”

“What people?”

“The nice people you should have known.  You were entitled to the very best.  The Eliotts and the Gardners—­those are the people who should have been your friends, not the Hannays and the Ransomes; and not, believe me, darling, Mr. Gorst.”

For a moment Edith unveiled the tragic suffering in her eyes.  It passed, and left her gaze grave and lucid and serene.