“Who is? Some tea-drinking old maids who’ve got at your uncle Nestor. He doesn’t like me, as you know, so naturally he believes them.” “But, Tom, what could have started the old maids, as you call them?” “Our hurried leaving, of course. What else?” “Ah,” she said, turning very pale, as though a bitter thought had come to her. “Charles, Charles. Oh, why did not Uncle Nestor write to me, instead of you? He need not have told you the scandal.” Margaret, who had gone to the window with Perrin, to look out over the darkened harbour, while the husband and wife talked together, now turned gravely towards her, too sad to answer. “I didn’t mean that, Charles.” She looked from one face to another, searching for a key to the puzzle, for a way back to the peace of ten minutes ago. “What were you doing, Charles, when I came in just now?” “We were struggling for the letter, Olivia.” “You had snatched the letter, Tom?” “From me,” said Perrin. “I did not wish your husband to read it, Olivia,” Margaret added. “He told me it concerned me,” said Stukeley, “and naturally, in a playful way, I snatched it. In a playful way.” “I told you no such thing,” said Margaret. “And yet, Charles, you say you did not wish Tom, my husband, to read it?” “I did not wish it.” “And you could hand it on to Edward?” “Yes.” “But I don’t understand. And you wished me to read it?” “Yes, Olivia. I wished you to read it.” “We can’t discuss it here, Livy,” Stukeley said. “Old Howard may come in. Let’s go on board.” “Tom, we can’t go on board. I can’t enter that ship again. They’ve been calling us that for three months. Do think what it means, dear.” “Only cackle,” he answered sullenly. “I’m not going to alter my plans for a little old wives’ cackle.” “You think it’s only that, Tom?” “Good luck. Yes.” “But let’s go home and put an end to it. If we don’t it may grow. It may----” The door opened. Howard entered. He looked round them with his air of weary boredom. “Captain Margaret,” he said coldly, “your boat is waiting. Your captain is anxious not to lose the tide.” “Well, we’ll go on board then. Edward, fetch Olivia’s wraps.” “No,” Olivia said. “No. Not that. We’re not going, Charles. We’re going home. Oh, this letter is like a fire.” “Come, Edward,” said Margaret, “we’ll be getting our cloaks.” “I’ll get Olivia’s things,” Stukeley said. “Tom,” she cried, “you aren’t going to run away like this, letting them think you guilty? You can’t, Tom. Go back. No. No. I can’t let you. Dear, we must face this. We must go home and face this.”