“Indeed I never think about it now,” said Philip gently.  He knew that her nature was in the main generous and upright:  it was unnecessary for her to reveal her thoughts.

“The first evening we got to Monteriano,” she persisted, “Lilia went out for a walk alone, saw that Italian in a picturesque position on a wall, and fell in love.  He was shabbily dressed, and she did not even know he was the son of a dentist.  I must tell you I was used to this sort of thing.  Once or twice before I had had to send people about their business.”

“Yes; we counted on you,” said Philip, with sudden sharpness.  After all, if she would reveal her thoughts, she must take the consequences.

“I know you did,” she retorted with equal sharpness.  “Lilia saw him several times again, and I knew I ought to interfere.  I called her to my bedroom one night.  She was very frightened, for she knew what it was about and how severe I could be.  ‘Do you love this man?’ I asked.  ’Yes or no?’ She said ‘Yes.’  And I said, ’Why don’t you marry him if you think you’ll be happy?’ "

“Really—­really,” exploded Philip, as exasperated as if the thing had happened yesterday.  “You knew Lilia all your life.  Apart from everything else—­as if she could choose what could make her happy!”

“Had you ever let her choose?” she flashed out.  “I’m afraid that’s rude,” she added, trying to calm herself.

“Let us rather say unhappily expressed,” said Philip, who always adopted a dry satirical manner when he was puzzled.

“I want to finish.  Next morning I found Signor Carella and said the same to him.  He—­well, he was willing.  That’s all.”

“And the telegram?” He looked scornfully out of the window.

Hitherto her voice had been hard, possibly in self-accusation, possibly in defiance.  Now it became unmistakably sad.  “Ah, the telegram!  That was wrong.  Lilia there was more cowardly than I was.  We should have told the truth.  It lost me my nerve, at all events.  I came to the station meaning to tell you everything then.  But we had started with a lie, and I got frightened.  And at the end, when you left, I got frightened again and came with you.”

“Did you really mean to stop?”

“For a time, at all events.”

“Would that have suited a newly married pair?”

“It would have suited them.  Lilia needed me.  And as for him—­I can’t help feeling I might have got influence over him.”

“I am ignorant of these matters,” said Philip; “but I should have thought that would have increased the difficulty of the situation.”

The crisp remark was wasted on her.  She looked hopelessly at the raw over-built country, and said, “Well, I have explained.”

“But pardon me, Miss Abbott; of most of your conduct you have given a description rather than an explanation.”

He had fairly caught her, and expected that she would gape and collapse.  To his surprise she answered with some spirit, “An explanation may bore you, Mr. Herriton:  it drags in other topics.”