"No, Clara, I did not do that. I'll tell you what I did. I gave you to understand that if it was needful that you should hear about me and my antecedents,--certain matters as to which Mr. Belton had been inquiring into in a manner that I thought to be most unjustifiable,--I would tell you that story." "And do so without being angry with me for asking." "I meant, of course, that I would not make it a ground for quarrelling with you. If I wished to tell you I could do so without any inquiry." "I have sometimes thought that you did wish to tell me." "Sometimes I have,--almost." "But you have no such wish now?" "Can't you understand? It may well be that one so much alone as I am,--living here without a female friend, or even acquaintance, except yourself,--should often feel a longing for that comfort which full confidence between us would give me." "Then why not--" "Stop a moment. Can't you understand that I may feel this, and yet entertain the greatest horror against inquiry? We all like to tell our own sorrows, but who likes to be inquired into? Many a woman burns to make a full confession, who would be as mute as death before a policeman." "I am no policeman." "But you are determined to ask a policeman's questions?" To this Clara made no immediate reply. She felt that she was acting almost falsely in going on with such questions, while she was in fact aware of all the circumstances which Mrs. Askerton could tell;--but she did not know how to declare her knowledge and to explain it. She sincerely wished that Mrs. Askerton should be made acquainted with the truth; but she had fallen into a line of conversation which did not make her own task easy. But the idea of her own hypocrisy was distressing to her, and she rushed at the difficulty with hurried, eager words, resolving that, at any rate, there should be no longer any doubt between them. "Mrs. Askerton," she said, "I know it all. There is nothing for you to tell. I know what the sword is." "What is it that you know?" "That you were married long ago to--Mr. Berdmore." "Then Mr. Belton did do me the honour of talking about me when he was here?" As she said this she rose from her chair, and stood before Clara with flashing eyes. "Not a word. He never mentioned your name, or the name of any one belonging to you. I have heard it from another." "From what other?" "I do not know that that signifies,--but I have learned it." "Well;--and what next?" "I do not know what next. As so much has been told me, and as you had said that I might ask you, I have come to you, yourself. I shall believe your own story more thoroughly from yourself than from any other teller." "And suppose I refuse to answer you?" "Then I can say nothing further." "And what will you do?" "Ah;--that I do not know. But you are harsh to me, while I am longing to be kind to you. Can you not see that this has been all forced upon me,--partly by yourself?"