d not usually vouchsafe a glance,--she looked
round coolly and calmly, and said:

"Never do you dare to mention Mrs Maidan's name again. You murdered her.
You and I murdered her between us. I am as much a scoundrel as you. I
don't like to be reminded of it."

Florence went off at once into a babble of how could she have hurt a
person whom she hardly knew, a person whom with the best intentions, in
pursuance of her efforts to leave the world a little brighter, she had
tried to save from Edward. That was how she figured it out to herself.
She really thought that.... So Leonora said patiently:

"Very well, just put it that I killed her and that it's a painful
subject. One does not like to think that one had killed someone.
Naturally not. I ought never to have brought her from India." And that,
indeed, is exactly how Leonora looked at it. It is stated a little
baldly, but Leonora was always a great one for bald statements.

What had happened on the day of our jaunt to the ancient city of M----
had been this:

Leonora, who had been even then filled with pity and contrition for the
poor child, on returning to our hotel had gone straight to Mrs Maidan's
room. She had wanted just to pet her. And she had perceived at first
only, on the clear, round table covered with red velvet, a letter
addressed to her. It ran something like:

"Oh, Mrs Ashburnham, how could you have done it? I trusted you so. You
never talked to me about me and Edward, but I trusted you. How could you
buy me from my husband? I have just heard how you have--in the hall they
were talking about it, Edward and the American lady. You paid the
money for me to come here. Oh, how could you? How could you? I am going
straight back to Bunny...." Bunny was Mrs Maidan's husband.

And Leonora said that, as she went on reading the letter, she had,
without looking round her, a sense that that hotel room was cleared,
that there were no papers on the table, that there were no clothes on
the hooks, and that there was a strained silence--a silence, she said,
as if there were something in the room that drank up such sounds as
there were. She had to fight against that feeling, whilst she read the
postscript of the letter.

"I did not know you wanted me for an adulteress," the postscript began.
The poor child was hardly literate. "It was surely not right of you and
I never wanted to be one. And I heard Edward call me a poor little rat
to the American lady. He always called