He uttered this with a peculiar emphasis, gazing steadily into her face.  Miriam dropped her eyes, and made no reply.

“You represented it to your brother in this light?” he continued, in the same tone.

She forced herself to look at him; there was awed wonder on her face.

“There is no need to answer in words.  I see that I have understood you.  But of course you soon learnt that you had been in part mistaken.  Cecily had no intention of leaving her husband, from the first.”

Miriam breathed with difficulty.  He motioned to her to sit down, but she gave no heed.

“Then why did she come to you?” fell from her lips.

“Please to take your seat again, Mrs. Baske.”

She obeyed him.  He took a chair at a little distance, and answered her question.

“She came because she was in great distress, and had no friend in whom she could confide so naturally.  This was a misfortune; it should not have been so.  It was to you that she should have gone, and I am afraid it was your fault that she could not.”

“My fault?”

“Yes.  You had not behaved to her with sisterly kindness.  You had held apart from her; you had been cold and unsympathetic.  Am I unjust?”

“Can one command feelings?”

“That is to say, you felt coldly to her.  Are you conscious of any reason?  I believe religious prejudice no longer influences you?”

“No.”

“Then I am obliged to recall something to your mind.  Do you remember that you were practically an agent in bringing about Cecily’s marriage?  No doubt things would have taken much the same course, however you had acted.  But is it not true that you gave what help was in your power?  You acted as though your brother’s suit had your approval.  And I think you alone did so.”

“You exaggerate.  I know what you refer to.  Reuben betrayed my lack of firmness, as he betrays every one who trusts in him.”

“Let us call it lack of firmness.  The fact is the same, and I feel very strongly that it laid an obligation on you.  From that day you should have been truly a sister to Cecily.  You should have given her every encouragement to confide in you.  She loved you in those days, in spite of all differences.  You should never have allowed this love to fail.”

Miriam kept her eyes on the floor.

“I am afraid,” he added, after a pause, “that you won’t tell me why you cannot think kindly of her?”

She hesitated, her lips moving uncertainly.

“There is a reason?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“I have no right to press you to do so.  I will rather ask this—­I asked it once before, and had no satisfactory answer—­why did you allow me to think for a few days, in Italy, that you accepted my friendship and gave me yours in return, and then became so constrained in your manner to me that I necessarily thought I had given you offence?”