‘Yes, I think it has,’ Lawford answered calmly. ‘But I don’t quite see what suicide has got to do with it; unless—You know Widderstone, then, Sheila?’ ‘I drove there last Saturday afternoon.’ ‘For prayer or praise?’ Although Lawford had not actually raised his head, he became conscious rather of the wonderfully adjusted mass of hair than of the pained dignity in the face that was now closely regarding him. ‘I went,’ came the rigidly controlled retort, ‘simply to test an inconceivable story.’ ‘And returned?’ ‘Convinced, Arthur, of its inconceivability. But if you would kindly inform me what precise formula you followed at Widderstone last night, I would tell you why I think the explanation, or rather your first account of the matter, is not an explanation of the facts.’ Lawford shot a rather doglike glance over his toast. ‘Danton?’ he said. ‘Candidly, Arthur, Mr Danton doubts the whole story. Your very conduct—well, it would serve no useful purpose to go into that. Candidly, on the other hand, Mr. Danton did make some extremely helpful suggestions—basing them, of course, on the _truth_ of your account. He has seen a good deal of life; and certainly very mysterious things do occur to quite innocent and well-meaning people without the faintest shadow of warning, and as Mr. Bethany himself said, evil birds do come home to roost, and often out of a clear sky, as it were. But there, every fresh solution that occurs to me only makes the thing more preposterous, more, I was going to say, disreputable—I mean, of course, to the outside world. And we have our duties to perform to them too, I suppose. Why, what can we say? What plausible account of ourselves have we? We shall never be able to look anybody in the face again. I can only—I am compelled to believe that God has been pleased to make this precise visitation upon us—an eye for an eye, I suppose, _somewhere_. And to that conviction I shall hold until actual circumstances convince me that it’s false. What, however, and this is all that I have to say now, what I cannot understand are your amazing indiscretions.’ ‘Do you understand your own, Sheila?’ ‘My indiscretions, Arthur?’ ‘Well,’ said Lawford, ‘wasn’t it indiscreet, don’t you think, to risk divine retribution by marrying me? Shouldn’t you have inquired? Wasn’t it indiscreet to allow me to remain here in—in my “visitation?” Wasn’t it indiscreet to risk the moral stigma this unhappy face of mine must cast on its surroundings? I am not sure whether such a change as this constitutes cruelty.... Oh, what is the use of fretting and babbling on like this?’ ‘Am I to understand, then, that you refuse positively to discuss this horrible business any more? You are doing your best to drive me away, Arthur; you must see that. Will you be very disappointed if I refuse to go?’