And of course I would have continued the allowance I’m giving her—I would have doubled it. But what she wanted was to stay with me; the new life she was leading amused her. She was a poor servant-girl, you know; and she had a dread-fill time when—when my father was alive. She was our only help… I suppose you read about it all … and even then she was good to me… She dared to speak to him as I didn’t… And then, at the trial… The trial lasted a whole month; and it was a month with thirty-one days… Oh, don’t make me go back to it—for God’s sake don’t!” she burst out, sobbing.

            It was impossible to carry on the discussion. All I thought of was to comfort her. I helped her to her feet, whispering to her as if she had been a frightened child, and putting my arm about her to guide her down the path. She leaned on me, pressing her arm against mine. At length she said: “You see it can’t be; I always told you it could never be.”

            “I see more and more that it must be; but we won’t talk about that now,” I answered.

            We dined quietly in a corner of the pension dining-room, which was filled by a colony of British old maids and retired army officers and civil servants—all so remote from the world of the “Ezra Spain case” that, if Shreve had been there to proclaim Mrs. Ingram’s identity, the hated syllables would have waked no echo. I pointed this out to Mrs. Ingram, and reminded her that in a few years all memory of the trial would have died out, even in her own country, and she would be able to come and go unobserved and undisturbed. She shook her head and murmured: “Cassie doesn’t think so”; but when I suggested that Miss Wilpert might have her own reasons for cultivating this illusion, she did not take up the remark, and let me turn to pleasanter topics.

            After dinner it was warm enough to wander down to the shore in the moonlight, and there, sitting in the little square along the lakeside, she seemed at last to cast off her haunting torment, and abandon herself to the strange new sense of happiness and safety. But presently the church bell rang the hour, and she started up, insisting that we must get back to the pension before Miss Wilpert’s arrival. She would be there soon now, and Mrs. Ingram did not wish her to know of my presence till the next day.

            I agreed to this, but stipulated that the next morning the news of our approaching marriage should be broken to Miss Wilpert, and that as soon as possible afterward I should be told of the result. I wanted to make sure of seeing Kate the moment her talk with Miss Wilpert was over, so that I could explain away—and above all, laugh away—the inevitable threats and menaces before they grew to giants in her tormented imagination. She promised to meet me between eleven and twelve in the deserted writing-room, which we were fairly sure of having to ourselves at that hour; and from there I could take her up the hillside to have our talk out undisturbed.

              

 

 VII.
 
 

            I did not get much sleep that night, and the next morning before the pension was up I went out for a short row on the lake. The exercise braced my nerves, and when I got back I was prepared to face with composure whatever further disturbances were in store. I did not think they would be as bad as they appeared to my poor friend’s distracted mind, and was convinced that if I could keep a firm hold on her will the worst would soon be over. It was not much past nine, and I was just finishing the café au lait I had ordered on returning from my row, when there was a knock at my door. It was not the casual knock of a tired servant coming to remove a tray, but a sharp nervous rap immediately followed by a second; and, before I could answer, the door opened and Miss Wilpert appeared. She came directly in, shut the door behind her, and stood looking at me with a flushed and lowering stare. But it was a look I was fairly used to seeing when her face was turned to mine, and my first thought was one of relief. If there was a scene ahead, it was best that I should bear the brunt of it; I was not half so much afraid of Miss Wilpert as of the Miss Wilpert of Kate’s imagination.

            I stood up and pushed forward my only armchair. “Do you want to see me, Miss Wilpert? Do sit down.”

            My visitor ignored the suggestion. “Want to see you? God knows I don’t… I wish we’d never laid eyes on you, either of us,” she retorted in a thick passionate voice. If the hour had not been so early I should have suspected her of having already fortified herself for the encounter.

            “Then, if you won’t sit down, and don’t want to see me—” I began affably; but she interrupted me.

            “I don’t want to see you; but I’ve got to. You don’t suppose I’d be here if I didn’t have something to say to you?”

            “Then you’d better sit down, after all.”

            She shook her head, and remained leaning in the window-jamb, one elbow propped on the sill. “What I want to know is: what business has a dandified gentleman like you to go round worming women’s secrets out of them?”

            Now we were coming to the point. “If I’ve laid myself open to the charge,” I said quietly, “at least it’s not because I’ve tried to worm out yours.”

            The retort took her by surprise. Her flush darkened, and she fixed her small suspicious eyes on mine.

            “Afy secrets?” she flamed out. “What do you know about my secrets?” She pulled herself together with a nervous laugh.