“I wish we could get my husband and Stephen to see things that way,” she continued, sweetly, over her tea-cup. “They’re so pacifist, both of them. My husband feels that we’ve nothing to do with it, and Stephen is opposed to war on any ground. You must talk to him, Mr.—or captain, isn’t it? Oh, major? You must talk to him, Major Melbury. He’ll listen to you.” She turned to Annette. “You know, Annette, I just ran in to share our good news with you. Regina and Stephen—they’ve made it up again—and they’re so happy!” An oblique glance included me. She was getting the satisfaction that women receive from a certain kind of revenge. “Poor darling! You don’t know how hard she’s tried, Annette. People haven’t understood her. All she’s wanted was to be sure of herself—and now she is. She’s really been in love with Stephen all these years, only she didn’t know it. That is, she knew it; and yet—But I’m sure you see it. You’re one of the few who’ve never been unkind to her. She wanted me to tell you. She’ll be so glad to have you know it, too, Major Melbury. Perhaps she told you on the boat. I think she said she did. I don’t quite remember. There’s been so much to say in the last few hours. There always is at such a time, don’t you think?... No; they’re not going to announce an engagement. It would only make more talk, after all the talk there’s been. One of these days they’ll be married—without saying anything about it. And, oh!—I know you’ll be interested, Annette, though it may bore Major Melbury—Stephen has bought that very nice house—the Endsleigh Jarrotts lived in it for a little while—on Park Avenue near Sixty-sixth Street. Ralph Coningsby is going to remodel it for them, and I’m sure it will be awfully attractive. That’s where they’ll live.” It was my opportunity. I could have shouted out there and then and made a scene. Do you think me a coward for not doing it? Do you think me a fool? All kinds of speeches were hot within me—and I kept them back. More correctly, I didn’t keep them back; I simply couldn’t utter them. I couldn’t give pain to this sweet lady sipping her tea so contentedly; I couldn’t give pain to Annette. Annette was enjoying the situation in which we found ourselves; the sweet lady had got compensation for months, for years, of wondering and unhappiness in those seemingly artless words, “She’s really been in love with Stephen all these years, only she didn’t know it.” I knew they were spoken for my benefit. Between the lines, between the syllables, they said, “And if you think she was ever in love with you you’re wrong.” Whether the sweet lady believed her own statements or not made little difference. It would gratify her all her life to remember that she had had the chance of making them. So I came away, following the line of least resistance, because I didn’t see what else I could do. I didn’t see what else I could do when Cantyre came into my bedroom late that night.