Tarrant was at a loss to interpret this singular levity.  He had never truly believed that reading of Nancy’s character by means of which he tried to persuade himself that his marriage was an unmitigated calamity, and a final parting between them the best thing that could happen.  His memories of her, and the letters she had written him, coloured her personality far otherwise.  Yet was not the harsh judgment after all the true one?

‘It doesn’t matter to you,’ he said, ’that people think you an unmarried mother,—­that people are talking about you with grins and sneers?’

Nancy reddened in angry shame.

‘Let them talk!’ she exclaimed violently.  ’What does it matter, so long as they don’t know I’m married?’

‘So long as they don’t know?—­How came you to tell this woman?’

’Do you suppose I told her for amusement?  She found out what had happened at Falmouth,—­found out simply by going down there and making inquiries; because she suspected me of some secret affair with a man she wants to marry herself—­this Mr. Crewe.  The wonder of wonders is that no one else got to know of it in that way.  Any one who cared much what happened to me would have seen the all but impossibility of keeping such a secret.’

It is a notable instance of evolutionary process that the female mind, in wrath, flies to just those logical ineptitudes which most surely exasperate the male intelligence.  Tarrant gave a laugh of irate scorn.

’Why, you told me the other day that I cared particularly whether your secret was discovered or not—­that I only married you in the hope of profiting by it?’

‘Wouldn’t any woman think so?’

’I hope not.  I believe there are some women who don’t rush naturally to a base supposition.’

‘Did I?’ Nancy exclaimed, with a vehement passion that made her breast heave.  ’Didn’t I give you time enough—­believe in you until I could believe no longer?’

The note of her thrilling voice went to Tarrant’s heart, and his head drooped.

‘That may be true,’ he said gravely.  ’But go on with your explanation.  This woman came to you, and told you what she had discovered?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you allowed her to think you unmarried?’

’What choice had I?  How was my child to be brought up if I lost everything?’

‘Good God, Nancy!  Did you imagine I should leave you to starve?’

His emotion, his utterance of her name, caused her to examine him with a kind of wonder.

’How did I know?—­How could I tell, at that time, whether you were alive or dead?—­I had to think of myself and the child.’

‘My poor girl!’

The words fell from him involuntarily.  Nancy’s look became as scornful and defiant as before.

’Oh, that was nothing.  I’ve gone through a good deal more than that.’

’Stop.  Tell me this.  Have you in your anger—­anger natural enough —­allowed yourself to speak to any one about me in the way I should never forgive?  In the spirit of your letter, I mean.  Did you give this Beatrice French any ground for thinking that I made a speculation of you?’