“In a month or two the head-mistress of her school, a sensible woman, helped her to get an engagement—­with not a word said of the catastrophe.  She went as Miss Allen.  It was her firm resolve never again to see Northway.  She would not acknowledge that that ceremony in the church made her a wife.  Of course, you understand that it wasn’t only the forgery that revolted her; that, I suppose, could have been pardoned.  In a few days she had learnt more of herself and of the world than in all the previous years.  She understood that Northway was really nothing to her.  She accepted him because he was the first man who interested her and made love to her —­like thousands of girls.  Lilian is rather weak, unfortunately.  She can’t stand by herself.  But for me, I am convinced she would now be at the mercy of the blackguard, when he comes out.  Horror and despair enabled her to act firmly three years ago; but if she had no one to support her—­well, she has!”

“What did you propose,” asked Glazzard, “when you persuaded her to live with you?”

Denzil wrinkled his brow and looked gloomily at the fire.

“We agreed to live a life of our own, that was all.  To tell you the truth, Glazzard, I had no clear plans.  I was desperately in love, and—­well, I thought of emigration some day.  You know me too well to doubt my honesty.  Lilian became my wife, for good and all—­no doubt about that!  But I didn’t trouble much about the future—­it’s my way.”

“She cut herself loose from the Bristol people?”

“No; she has corresponded with them at long intervals.  They think she is teaching in London.  The tragedy excuses her from visiting them.  Aunt and sister are sworn to secrecy concerning her whereabouts.  A good thing she has no male relatives to hunt her up.”

“Does she draw her income?—­I beg your pardon, the question escaped me.  Of course it’s no business of mine.”

“Never mind.  Yes, the money is at her disposal; thanks to the settlement required by her father’s will.  I’m afraid she gives away a lot of it in indiscriminate charity.  I needn’t say,” he added, with a characteristic movement of the head, “that I have nothing to do with it.”

He paused.

“My real position she doesn’t understand.  I have never told her of how it was changed at my father’s death.—­Poor girl!  About that time she was disappointed of a child, and had a month or two of black misery.  I kept trying to make up my mind what course would be the wisest, and in the meanwhile said nothing.  She is marvellously patient.  In fact, what virtue hasn’t she, except that of a strong will?  Whatever happens, she and I stand together; nothing on earth would induce me to part from her!  I want you to understand that.  In what I am now going to do, I am led solely and absolutely by desire for our common good.  You see, we are face to face with the world’s immoral morality.  To brave it would be possible, of course; but then we must either go to a foreign country or live here in isolation.  I don’t want to live permanently abroad, and I do want to go in for activity—­political by preference.  The result is we must set our faces, tell lies, and hope that fortune will favour us.”