opened she would
not, of course, consent to marry this man who had so meanly abused her
trust, but--suppose she had not known! Suppose in ignorance the
marriage had taken place? If he had been loving, if he had been kind,
would she in after days have regretted the step? At the bottom of her
weary woman's heart, Cecil answered that she would _not_. The fraud was
unpardonable, yet she could have pardoned it, if it had been done for
love of herself. No stately Surrey mansion would have been her home,
but a cottage of three or four rooms, but it would have been her _own_
cottage, her _own_ home. She would have felt pride in keeping it clean
and bright. There would have been some one to work for: some one to
care: some one to whom she _mattered_. And suddenly there came the
thought of another joy that might have been; she held to her breast a
child that was no paid charge, but her very own, bone of her bone, flesh
of her flesh...

"No! No!" she cried harshly, "I am not grateful. _Why_ did you tell
me? Why did you spoil it? What do I care who he was? He was my man;
he wanted me. He told lies _because_ he wanted me... I am getting old,
and I'm tired and cross, but he cared.--He _did_ care, and he looked up
to me, and wanted to appear my equal... Oh, I'm not excusing him. I
know all you would say. He deceived me--he borrowed money that he could
never pay back, but he would have confessed some day, he would have had
to confess, and I should have forgiven him. I'd have forgiven him
anything, _because_ he cared ... and after that--he would have cared
more--I should have had him. I should have had my home..."

Claire hid her face, and groaned in misery of spirit. From her own
point of view it seemed impossible that any woman should regret a man
who had proved so unworthy, but once again she reminded herself that her
own working life counted only one year, as against Cecil's twelve; once
again she felt she had no right to judge. Presently she became aware
that Cecil was moving about the room, opening the bureau, and taking
papers out of a drawer. At the end of ten minutes she came back to the
table, and began drawing on her gloves. Her face was set and tearless,
but the lines had deepened into a new distinctness. Claire had a
pitiful realisation that this was how Cecil would look when she was
_old_.

"Well," she said curtly, "that's finished! I may as well go for my
train. I'm sorry to appear ungraciou