"No more am I," said Edie. "Let's say both our bulbs. I wish he wouldn't garden quite so much, though. It always makes his head ache." "Why does he do it, then?" asked Anne calmly. Her calmness irritated Edith. "Oh, why does Walter do anything? Because he's an angel!" Anne's silence gave her the opening she was looking for. "You know, you used to think so, too." "Of course I did," said Anne evasively. "And equally of course, you don't, now you've married him?" "I _have_ married him. What more could I do to prove my appreciation?" "Oh, heaps more. Mere marrying's nothing. Any woman can do that." "Do you think so? It seems to me that marrying--mere marrying--may be a great deal--about as much as many men have a right to ask." "Hasn't every man a right to ask for--what shall I say--a little understanding--from the woman he cares for?" "Edith, what has he told you?" "Nothing, my dear, that I hadn't seen for myself." "Did he tell you that I 'misunderstood' him?" "Did he pose as _l'homme incompris_? No, he didn't." "Still--he told you," Anne insisted. "Of course he did." She brushed the self-evident aside and returned to her point. "He does care for you. That, at least, you can understand." "No, that's just what I don't understand. I can't understand his caring. I can't understand him. I can't understand anything." Her voice shook. "Poor darling, I know it's hard, sometimes. Still, you do know what he is." "I know what he was--what I thought him. It's hard to reconcile it with what he is." "With what you think him? You can't, of course. I suppose you think him something too bad for words?" Anne broke down weakly. "Oh, Edith, why didn't you tell me?" "What? That Wallie was bad?" "Yes, yes. It would have been better if you'd told me everything." "Well, dear, whatever I told you, I couldn't have told you that. It wouldn't have been true." "He says himself that everything was true." "Everything probably is true. But then, the point is that you don't know the whole truth, or even half of it. That's just what he couldn't tell you. I should have told you. That's where I bungled it. You know he left it to me; he said I was to tell you." "Yes, he told me that. He didn't mean to deceive me." "No more did I. If my brother had been a bad man, dear, do you suppose for a moment I'd have let him marry my dearest friend?" "You didn't know. We don't know these things, Edith. That's the terrible part of it." "Yes, it's the terrible part of it. But _I_ knew all right. He never kept anything from me, not for long." "But, Edith--how _could_ he? How _could_ he? When the woman--Lady Cayley--She was _bad_, wasn't she?" "Of course she was bad. Bad as they make them--worse. You know she was divorced?" "Yes," said Anne, "that's what I do know." "Well, she wasn't divorced on Walter's account, my dear. There were several others--four, five, goodness knows how many. Poor Walter was a mere drop in her ocean."