For, in her fancy, the Minor Canon, being withdrawn in time, had ceased to occupy space; he had become that which he was for her girlhood, a disembodied dream. She could not have explained why she was so ashamed of him. What ground of comparison was there between that blameless one and Lady Cayley? "Edith," she said suddenly, "did you ever see her?" "Never," said Edith emphatically. "You don't know what she was like?" "I don't. I never wanted to. I dare say there are people in Scale who could tell you all about her, only I wouldn't inquire if I were you." "Did it happen at Scarby?" She was determined to know the worst. "I believe so." "Oh--why did I ever go there?" "He didn't want you to. That was why." "Where is she now?" "Nobody knows. She might be anywhere." "Not here?" "No, not here. My dear, you mustn't get her on your nerves." "I'm afraid of meeting her." "It isn't likely that you ever will. She isn't the sort one does meet--now, poor thing." "Who was she?" "The wife of Sir Andrew Cayley, a tallow-chandler." "Oh, how did Walter ever--" "My dear, one meets all sorts of funny people in Scale. He was a very wealthy tallow-chandler. Besides, it wasn't he that Walter did meet, naturally." "How can you joke about it? It makes me sick to think of it." "It made me sick enough once, dear. But I don't think of it." "I can't help thinking of it." "Well, whenever you do, when it does come over you--it will, sometimes--think of what Walter's life was before he knew you. Everything was spoiled for him because of me. He was sent to a place he detested because of me; put into an office which he loathed, shut up here in this hateful house, because of me. And he was good to me, good and dear. Even at the worst he hardly ever left me if he thought I wanted him--not even to go to _her_. But he was young, and it was an awful life for him; you don't know how awful. It would have been bad enough for a woman. It was intolerable for a man. I was worse then than I am now. I was horribly fretful, and I worried him. I think I drove him to her--I know I did. He had to get away from it sometimes. Won't you think of that?" "I'll try to think of it." "And it won't make you not like him?" "My dear, I liked him first for your sake, then I liked you for his, now I suppose I must like him for yours again." "No--for his own sake." "Does it matter which?" "Not much--so long as you like him. He really is angelic, though you mayn't think it." "I think you are."