“But”—­I moistened my lips and spoke slowly—­“she may have gone to marry.”

“If that was so!  I’ve prayed to God it might be so, Willie.  I’ve prayed that he’d take pity on her—­him, I mean, she’s with.”

I jerked out:  “Who’s that?”

“In her letter, she said he was a gentleman.  She did say he was a gentleman.”

“In her letter.  Has she written?  Can I see her letter?”

“Her father took it.”

“But if she writes—­ When did she write?”

“It came this morning.”

“But where did it come from?  You can tell—­”

“She didn’t say.  She said she was happy.  She said love took one like a storm—­”

“Curse that!  Where is her letter?  Let me see it.  And as for this gentleman—­”

She stared at me.

“You know who it is.”

“Willie!” she protested.

“You know who it is, whether she said or not?” Her eyes made a mute unconfident denial.

“Young Verrall?”

She made no answer.  “All I could do for you, Willie,” she began presently.

“Was it young Verrall?” I insisted.

For a second, perhaps, we faced one another in stark understanding. . . .  Then she plumped back to the chest of drawers, and her wet pocket-handkerchief, and I knew she sought refuge from my relentless eyes.

My pity for her vanished.  She knew it was her mistress’s son as well as I!  And for some time she had known, she had felt.

I hovered over her for a moment, sick with amazed disgust.  I suddenly bethought me of old Stuart, out in the greenhouse, and turned and went downstairs.  As I did so, I looked up to see Mrs. Stuart moving droopingly and lamely back into her own room.

Section 6

Old Stuart was pitiful.

I found him still inert in the greenhouse where I had first seen him.  He did not move as I drew near him; he glanced at me, and then stared hard again at the flowerpots before him.

“Eh, Willie,” he said, “this is a black day for all of us.”

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“The missus takes on so,” he said.  “I came out here.”

“What do you mean to do?”

“What is a man to do in such a case?”

“Do!” I cried, “why—­ Do!”

“He ought to marry her,” he said.

“By God, yes!” I cried.  “He must do that anyhow.”

“He ought to.  It’s—­it’s cruel.  But what am I to do?  Suppose he won’t?  Likely he won’t.  What then?”

He drooped with an intensified despair.

“Here’s this cottage,” he said, pursuing some contracted argument. 
“We’ve lived here all our lives, you might say. . . .  Clear out. 
At my age. . . .  One can’t die in a slum.”

I stood before him for a space, speculating what thoughts might fill the gaps between these broken words.  I found his lethargy, and the dimly shaped mental attitudes his words indicated, abominable.  I said abruptly, “You have her letter?”