And Stephen was startled. He had not expected this. He said, stupidly, "But John--what about John?--don't you want me--don't you--?" "No, Stephen, no--at least--" and she stopped, thinking now of John, trying conscientiously to realize what was owed to him. Then she went on, in a broken torrent of pleading, "No, Stephen, it's gone on so long now--a little more won't matter to him--surely, Stephen--and nobody _really_ thinks he did it--_nobody_, Stephen. It's only people like Mrs. Vincent, Mrs. Ambrose was saying so only yesterday--and it would mean--it would mean--what _would_ it mean, Stephen--Stephen, tell me?" But as she imagined what this would mean to Stephen she stood shuddering before him, her big eyes staring piteously at him. "It would mean--O God, Margery, I don't know--" and he turned away. So for a long time she pleaded with him, in groping, inarticulate half-sentences. She never reproached him, never asked him how he had come to do a foul murder. She did not want to know that, she did not want to think of what it was _right_ for him to do--that was too dangerous. All that mattered was this danger--a danger that could be avoided if she could only persuade him. And Stephen listened in a kind of stupor, listened miserably to the old excuses and arguments, and half-truths with which he had so often in secret convinced himself. But somehow, as Margery put them with all the prejudice of her passionate fears, they did not convince him. They stood out horribly in their nakedness. And though he was touched and amazed by the strength of her forgiveness and her love in the face of this knowledge, he wished almost that she had not forgiven him, had urged him with curses to go out and do his duty. No, he did not wish that, really. But he did wish she would leave him alone now, leave him to think. He _must_ think. His eye fell on the manuscript lying on the floor, and he began to wonder what it was in the poem that had told her, and how much it had told. She had said nothing of that. He interrupted her: "How--how did you guess?" He jerked his head at the paper. She told him. And as she went again through that terrible process in her mind, that other thought returned, that idle notion about the wooing in the castle, which she had flung away from her. She said, faltering and slow, her lips trembling, "Stephen--there's nothing else in it ... is there?... I ought to have guessed?--Stephen, you _do_ love me--don't you?" She stepped uncertainly towards him, and then with a loud cry, "Darling, I _do_!" he caught her to him. And she knew that it was true. XVI