At this point of her life Alma had become habitually suspicious of any relation between man and woman which might suggest, however remotely, dubious possibilities.  Innocence appeared to her the exception, lawlessness the rule, where man and woman were restrained by no obvious barriers.  It was the natural result of her experience, of her companionship, of the thoughts she deliberately fostered.  Having read the letter twice, having mused upon it, she leaped to a conclusion which seemed to explain completely the peculiar intimacy subsisting between Harvey and Mary Abbott.  These two children, known as Albert and Minnie Wager, were Harvey’s offspring, the result of some liaison before his marriage; and Mrs. Abbott, taking charge of them for payment, had connived at the story of their origin, of their pitiful desertion.  What could be clearer?

She did not go further in luminous conjectures.  Even with her present mind, Alma could not conceive of Mary Abbott as a wanton, of Harvey Rolfe as a shameless intriguer; but it stung her keenly to think that for years there had been this secret between them.  Probably the matter was known to Mrs. Abbott’s husband, and so, at his death, it had somehow become possible for Harvey to suggest this arrangement, whereby he helped the widow in her misfortunes, and provided conscientiously for his own illegitimate children.  Harvey was so very conscientious about children!

Did they resemble him?  She had seen the little girl, but only once, and without attention.  She would take an early opportunity of going over to Gunnersbury, to observe.  But no such evidence was necessary; the facts stared one in the face.

That Harvey should have kept this secret from her was intelligible enough; most men, no doubt, would have done the same.  But it seemed to Alma only another proof of her husband’s inability to appreciate her.  He had no faith in her as artist; he had no faith in her as woman.  Had she not felt this even from the very beginning of their intimate acquaintance?  Perhaps the first thing that awakened her interest in Harvey Rolfe was the perception that he did not, like other men, admire her unreservedly, that he regarded her with something of criticism.  She could attract him; she could play upon his senses; yet he remained critical.  This, together with certain characteristics which distinguished him from the ordinary drawing-room man, suggestions of force and individuality, drew her into singular relations with him long before she dreamt that he would become her husband.  And his attitude towards her was unchanged, spite of passionate love-making, spite of the tenderness and familiarity of marriage; still he viewed her with eyes of tolerance, rather than of whole-hearted admiration.  He compared, contrasted her with Mary Abbott, for whose intellect and character he had a sincere respect.  Doubtless he fancied that, if this secret became known to her, she would sulk or storm, after the manner of ordinary wives.  What made him so blind to her great qualities?  Was it that he had never truly loved her?  Had it been owing to mere chance, mere drift of circumstances, that he offered her marriage, instead of throwing out a proposal such as that of Cyrus Redgrave at Bregenz?