"All the more reason why you should have hauled the horrid thing out and let her have a good look at it. She mightn't have been afraid of it then. Now she's convinced it's a fifty times worse skeleton than it is." "She wouldn't have lived with it in the house, dear. She said so." "But I thought you never told her?" "She was talking about somebody else's skeleton, dear." "Oh, somebody else's, that's a very different thing." "She meant--if she'd been the woman. I was testing her, to see how she'd take it. Do you think I was very wrong?" "Well, frankly, dear, I cannot say you were very wise." "I wonder----" She lay back wondering. Doubt of her wisdom shook her through all her tender being. She had been so sure. "How would you have liked it," said she, "if Anne had given you up and gone away, and you'd never seen her again?" His face said plainly that he wouldn't have liked it at all. "Well, that's what she'd have done. And I wanted her to stay and marry you." "Yes, but with her eyes open." She shook her head, the head that would have been so wise for him. "No," said she. "Anne's one of those people who see best with their eyes shut." "Well, they're open enough now in all conscience. But there's one thing she hasn't found out. She doesn't know how it happened. Can you tell her? _I_ can't. I told her there were extenuating circumstances; but of course I couldn't go into them." "What did she say?" "She said no circumstances could extenuate facts." "I can hear her saying it." "I understand her state of mind," said Majendie. "She couldn't see the circumstances for the facts." "Our Anne is but young. In ten years' time she won't be able to see the facts for the circumstances." "Well--will you tell her?" "Of course I will." "Make her see that I'm not necessarily an utter brute just because I----" "I'll make her see everything." "Forgive me for bothering you." "Dear--forgive me for breaking my promise and deceiving you." He bent to her weak arms. "I believe," she whispered, "the end will yet justify the means." "Oh--the end." He didn't see it; but he was convinced that there could hardly be a worse beginning. He went upstairs, where Anne lay in the agonies of her bilious attack. He found comfort, rather than gave it, by holding handkerchiefs steeped in eau-de-Cologne to her forehead. It gratified him to find that she would let him do it without shrinking from his touch. But Anne was past that. CHAPTER IV For once in his life Majendie was glad that he had a business. Shipping (he was a ship-owner) was a distraction from the miserable problem that weighed on him at home. Anne's morning face was cold to him. She lay crushed in her bed. She had had a bad night, and he knew himself to be the cause of it. His pity for her hurt like passion. "How is she?" asked Edith, as he came into her room before going to the office. "She's a wreck," he said, "a ruin. She's had an awful night. Be kind to her, Edie."