“I’ve nothing to do with excuses. But, suppose that that was the case. Suppose, too, that he had but a moment to decide in Salcombe, between a lie, you, and the possibility of a new life, and the truth, arrest, and the certainty of disgrace. He chose you, the lie, and the possibility. He lied to you. The moment he told the first lie, you became, in his eyes in a sense, an enemy to beware of, an enemy who must be kept from the truth at all costs.” “Yes. I have seen that, of course. And the lie grew all through the voyage.” “He was afraid to run the risk of losing you, by telling you the truth.” “That was not much of a compliment to me, was it?” “All through that voyage, Olivia, we were in terror of being arrested on arrival. It was in our thoughts night and day. We used to sit in my cabin there, planning what we could do, if we found a warrant waiting for us. The strain made him reckless.” “Why should it have made him reckless?” “Because there was no one on board, except a few inferiors, who could console him. He could not confide in you. He had lied to you. We were not his sort. There was no one else to whom he could turn.” “Except some inferiors, to whom he turned.” “Yes, Olivia.” “And you could watch this, without a word, without attempting to put the matter right.” “Your husband wished to spare you, Olivia. We could not speak. We thought. We thought you were going to have a child.” “Ah,” she said, breathing hard, “I understand now.” “All through the voyage, your husband was probably thinking that you would soon learn, and that when you learned you would have nothing more to do with him. Imagination is rare in men. He could think of no other possibility. He made up his mind that you would cast him off, and therefore he cast you on without giving you a chance to do otherwise. Imagination is rare in women, Olivia, and you could not see his point of view, any more than he could see yours.” “You think I was proud and unforgiving. I have. It. If he’d turned to me. And he left me that morning with a stolen book in his pocket, intending to see us no more.” “Ah. We see now all that can come of a hasty moment.” He rose from his seat and stood before her. “Olivia,” he said, “I don’t extenuate. I’ve tried to explain. Perhaps neither of you saw very clearly. After Tolu, Olivia, there’s a life possible for you. You haven’t plumbed each other’s natures. You haven’t really lived yet. A fool’s paradise isn’t life. You don’t know what you may make of each other’s lives. He had not much chance, with that ghastly business hanging over him. You had none. Could you not start fair, after Tolu?” She pulled the remaining rose leaves from the arnotto, one by one. “It’s worth it, Olivia.” “Thank you, Charles,” she said quietly. She walked slowly to her state-room. “Yes,” he said to himself, after she had gone. “Yes. It’s the best thing.” XII. THE END