‘Did you ask anything about Mr. Barfoot?’

’My dear, I didn’t venture to.  It was impossible.  But I feel quite sure that they must have broken off all intercourse with him.  Whatever he may have said, they evidently didn’t believe it.  Miss Barfoot is away now.

‘And what did you tell her about me?’

‘Everything that you said I might, dear.’

‘Nothing else—­you are sure?’

Virginia coloured, but made asseveration that nothing else had passed her lips.

‘It wouldn’t have mattered if you had,’ said Monica indifferently.  ‘I don’t care.’

The sister, struggling with shame, was irritated by the needlessness of her falsehood.

‘Then why were you so particular to forbid me, Monica?’

’It was better—­but I don’t care.  I don’t care for anything.  Let them believe and say what they like—­’

‘Monica, if I find out at last that you have deceived me—­’

‘Oh, do, do, do be quiet!’ cried the other wretchedly.  ’I shall go somewhere and live alone—­or die alone.  You worry me—­I’m tired of it.’

‘You are not very grateful, Monica.’

’I can’t be grateful!  You must expect nothing from me.  If you keep talking and questioning I shall go away.  I don’t care what becomes of me.  The sooner I die the better.’

Scenes such as this had been frequent lately.  The sisters were a great trial to each other’s nerves.  Tedium and pain drove Monica to the relief of altercation, and Virginia, through her secret vice, was losing all self-control.  They wrangled, wailed, talked of parting, and only became quiet when their emotions had exhausted them.  Yet no ill-feeling resulted from these disputes.  Virginia had a rooted faith in her sister’s innocence; when angry, she only tried to provoke Monica into a full explanation of the mystery, so insoluble by unaided conjecture.  And Monica, say what she might, repaid this confidence with profound gratitude.  Strangely, she had come to view herself as not only innocent of the specific charge brought against her, but as a woman in every sense maligned.  So utterly void of significance, from her present point of view, was all that had passed between her and Bevis.  One reason for this lay in the circumstance that, when exchanging declarations with her lover, she was ignorant of a fact which, had she known it, would have made their meetings impossible.  Her husband she could never regard but as a cruel enemy; none the less, nature had set a seal upon their marriage against which the revolt of her heart was powerless.  If she lived to bear a child, that child would be his.  Widdowson, when he heard of her condition, would declare it the final proof of infidelity; and this injustice it was that exclusively occupied her mind.  On this account she could think only of the accusation which connected her name with Barfoot’s—­all else was triviality.  Had there been no slightest ground for imputation upon her conduct, she could not have resented more vigorously her husband’s refusal to acquit her of dishonour.