Anne turned white over her tea, pleaded her headache, and begged to be taken to her room. Majendie took her there. "Isn't Anne well?" asked Edith anxiously, when he came back. "Oh, it's nothing. She's been seedy all day, and the sight of that cake finished her off. I don't wonder. It's enough to upset a strong man. Let's ring for Nanna to take it away." He rang. When Nanna appeared Edith was eating her crumbs ostentatiously, as if unwilling to leave the last of a delicious thing. "Oh, Nanna," said she, "that's a heavenly wedding-cake!" Majendie was reminded of the habitual tender perfidy of that saint, his sister. She was always lying to make other people happy, saying that she had everything she wanted, when she hadn't, and that her spine didn't hurt her, when it did. When Edith was too exhausted to lie, she would look at you and smile, with the sweat of her torture on her forehead. He knew Edith, and wondered how far she had lied to Anne, and what she had done it for. He had a good mind to ask her; but he shrank from "dashing her down the first day." But Edith herself dashed everything down the first five minutes. There was nothing that _she_ shrank from. "I'm sorry for poor Anne," said she; "but it's nice to get you all to myself again. Just for once. Only for once. I'm not jealous." He smiled, and stroked her hair. "I was jealous--oh, furiously jealous, just at first, for five minutes. But I got over it. It was so undignified." "It didn't show, dear." "I didn't mean it to. It wouldn't have been pretty. And now, it's all over and I like Anne. But I don't like her as much as you." "You must like her more," he said gravely. "She'll need it--badly." Edith looked at him. "How can she need it badly, when she has you?" "You're a good woman, and I'm a mere mortal man. She's found that out already, and she doesn't like it." "Wallie, _dear_, what do you mean?" "I mean exactly what I say. She's found it out. She's found _me_ out. She's found everything out." "Found out? But how?" "It doesn't matter how. Edie, why didn't you tell her? You said you would." "Yes--I said I would." "And you told me you had." "No. I didn't tell you I had." "What did you tell me, then?" "I told you there was nothing to be afraid of, that it was all right." "And of course I thought you'd told her." "If I had told her it wouldn't have been all right; for she wouldn't have married you." Majendie scowled, and Edith went on calmly. "I knew that--she as good as told me so--and I knew _her_." "Well--what if she hadn't married me?" "That would have been very bad for both of you. Especially for you." "For me? And how do you know this isn't going to be worse? For both of us. It's generally better to be straight, and face facts, however disagreeable. Especially when everybody knows that you've got a skeleton in your cupboard." "Anne didn't, and she was so afraid of skeletons."