"Don't you worry," said Lady Cayley soothingly. "You can get your husband back from that woman to-morrow, if you choose." She smiled. "Do you see my motive now?" Lady Cayley had not seen it; but she had seen herself for one beautiful moment as the benignant and inspired conciliator. She desired Mrs. Majendie to see her so. She had gratified her more generous instincts in giving the unfortunate lady "the straight tip." She knew, perfectly well, that Mrs. Majendie wouldn't take it. She knew, all the time, that whatever else her revelation did, it would not move Mrs. Majendie to charm her husband back. She could not say precisely what it would do. Used to live solely in the voluptuous moment, she had no sense of drama beyond the scene she played in. "Your motive," said Mrs. Majendie, "is of no importance. No motive could excuse you." "You think not." She rose and looked down on the motionless woman. "I've told you the truth, Mrs. Majendie, because, sooner or later, you'd have had to know it; and other people would have told you worse things that aren't true. You can take it from me that there's nothing more to tell. I've told you the worst." "You've told me, and I do not believe it." "You'd better believe it. But, if you really don't, you can ask your husband. Ask him where he goes to every week in that yacht of his. Ask him what's become of Maggie Forrest, the pretty work-girl who made the embroidered frock for Mrs. Ransome's little girl. Tell him you want one like it for your little girl; and see what he looks like." Anne rose too. Her faint white face frightened Lady Cayley. She had wondered how Mrs. Majendie would look if she told her the truth about her husband. Now she knew. "My dear lady," said she, "what on earth did you expect?" Anne went blindly towards the chimney-piece where the bell was. Lady Cayley also turned. She meant to go, but not just yet. "One moment, Mrs. Majendie, please, before you turn me out. I wouldn't break my heart about it, if I were you. He might have done worse things." "He has done nothing." "Well--not much. He has done what I've told you. But, after all, what's that?" "Nothing to you, Lady Cayley, certainly," said Anne, as she rang the bell. She moved slowly towards the door. Lady Cayley followed to the threshold, and laid her hand delicately on the jamb of the door as Mrs. Majendie opened it. She raised to her set face the tender eyes of a suppliant. "Mrs. Majendie," said she, "don't be hard on poor Wallie. He's never been hard on you. He might have been." The latch sprang to under her gentle pressure. "Look at it this way. He has kept all his marriage vows--except one. You've broken all yours--except one. None of your friends will tell you that. That's why _I_ tell you. Because I'm not a good woman, and I don't count." She moved her hand from the door. It opened wide, and Lady Cayley walked serenely out. She had said her say. CHAPTER XXXII