He made no comment of any sort, refraining from pressing her upon the subject with a composure that left her completely at a loss as to his state of mind. Her own mind at the moment was in chaos, so sudden and so overwhelming had been her discovery. She marvelled at her previous blindness, but she asked no question even in her bewilderment. Her loyalty to her friends at Tetherstones held her silent. She was conscious of an urgent desire to be alone, to trace this thing to its source, to sort and arrange the many odd memories that now chased each other in wild confusion through her brain, to fit together once and for all this puzzle, the key to which had just been so amazingly given her. But the Bishop still sat before her, an uncompromising inquisitor who would not suffer her to go until he had obtained the last iota of information that he desired. He spoke, with cold peremptoriness. “Well, Miss Thorold, there remains the matter of your further adventures with my nephew. Your sojourn at Tetherstones at the time of your illness did not—apparently—terminate these. Do you object to telling me under what circumstances you left the Dermots?” “I left them finally to get work,” she said. “And in the first place?” said the Bishop. She met his look again. “In the first place I left them at night with your nephew. We went to an inn at Fordestown. He went up to town the next day, and I took a lodging in the place. I went back to Tetherstones about a week later at the request of old Dr. Square who attended them. The little girl was ill and wanted me. She died that night.” “And you stayed on?” said the Bishop. “I stayed on until two days ago, when I also went to town in the hope of selling some of my sketches. Your nephew had offered to help me.” “And that was your sole reason for going?” he said. “No, not my sole reason.” She spoke deliberately, and said no more. “But the only one you are prepared to give me?” he said. “Yes,” she answered with decision. He looked at his watch. “And you are not disposed to tell me how you came to run away—at night—with my nephew, a man with whom you wish me to believe that you had no desire to be associated?” “No,” said Frances quietly. “My opinion in the matter carries no weight?” he suggested. She knitted her brows a little. “I would certainly rather you believed in me,” she said. “But—I cannot give you any convincing reason for so doing.” “You can if you wish,” said the Bishop. She shook her head. “I am afraid not.” He rose. “By answering two questions which concern yourself alone. First, why are you not willing to marry my nephew?” She looked at him, slightly startled. “Because I don’t love him,” she said. “Thank you,” said the Bishop. “And is there any other man whom you would be willing to marry?” His eyes held her. She felt the blood surge over her face, but she could not turn away. He waited inexorably for her reply.