"Then I warn you--stop! I'm not good for you. I hurt people who love me. You always pestered me about hurting Louise. You needn't protest. You always did. And now you lay her death at my door. I see it in your face. Can't I read you like a book? Can't I? Can't I?" Her face was distorted by the conflict within her. Alwynne's simplicity was convinced. Here, she felt, was tragedy. Awe and pity tore at her sense of reality. Love loosened her tongue. Her words rushed forth in a torrent of incoherent argument. She was so eager that her fallacies had power to convince herself, much more Clare. "Clare, I won't have it. You don't know what you say. What is this mad idea you've got? What would poor Louise think if she heard? Why, she adored you. And you were kind--always kind--only when you thought it better for her, you were strict. It's folly to torment yourself. If you do--what about me?" "You?" Clare's eyes glinted suddenly. "Me! If you are to blame, how much more I? Oh, don't you see?" Alwynne's face grew rapt. Here was inspiration; her path grew suddenly clear. "Clare, don't you see? If she did--" she paused imperceptibly--"I ought to have seen what was coming. I knew her so much better than you." Clare repressed a denial. "Oh, darling--you mustn't worry. It's my responsibility. Try and think--at the play, for instance. Did you think her manner strained? No, of course you didn't. But I did. I thought at the time it had all been too much for her. I did notice--I did! I thought--that child will get brain-fever if we're not careful----I meant to speak to Elsbeth. I meant to speak to you. Oh, I'd noticed before. Only I was busy, and lazy, and put it off. She was unhappy at failing--I knew. I wanted to tell you that I know how much it meant to her--and I didn't. I was afraid----" She broke off abruptly; her eloquence ended as suddenly as it had begun. But she had succeeded in her desire. Clare was recovering poise; would soon have herself all the more rigidly in control for her recent collapse. She stiffened as she spoke. "Afraid of whom?" "I mean I was afraid all along of what might happen," Alwynne concluded lamely. "You see, it was my fault?" There was an odd half-query in her voice. "If you noticed so much and never tried to warn me, you are certainly to blame." Clare's voice was full of reluctant conviction. "I can't remember that you tried very hard." "Oh, Clare!" began Alwynne. Their eyes met. Clare's face was hard and impassive--all trace of emotion gone. Her eyes challenged. Alwynne's lids dropped as she finished her sentence. "That is--no, I didn't try very hard." "And why not?" Inconceivably an answer suggested itself to Alwynne, an unutterable iconoclasm. Her mind edged away from it horrified and in an instant it was not. But it had been. "I don't know," she stammered. "You realised the responsibility you incurred?" Clare went on. "I didn't. No, never!" Alwynne supplicated her. "You do now?"