‘I have never understood,’ he repeated. ‘I must have been told what was not true. Now I know: you ought all to have seen that I must be told sooner or later. Is _that_ true?’ She was a woman of great resolution, and she freed herself from him, though his hold was so close. She came round to the other side of the table, and stood looking at him, with the steady look which had daunted many a rebel. She said, ‘You are ill; you don’t know what you are saying. I should not wonder if you had had a slight sunstroke. You must go to Susie’s room, which is cool and fresh, and lie down.’ And then there ensued a moment’s parley, but not with words--with keen eyes looking into each other across the table. She stood as steady as a rock, as if she were thinking of nothing but the accidental illness of which she spoke. But John saw that the lighter part of her, the edge, so to speak, the line of her black gown, the turn of her elbow, had a quiver in them. He saw this without knowing that he saw it, as we do in moments of emotion. ‘Mother,’ he said, ‘it’s no mistake; it’s not illness. It’s what I tell you. Come with me and see him: and if you can say then that it is not true---- Ah!’ he exclaimed, with a sharp tone of distress, ‘you can’t. I see it in your face.’ Mrs. Sandford did all she could to steady herself still. ‘To see whom?’ she said. ‘To see----’ Then, with a long-drawn breath, ‘You are trying to frighten me. I know--no one of whom you can be speaking.’ ‘Then why are you afraid?’ he said. She kept standing, gazing at him for a moment more. Then a sort of shivering seized her, and in a moment all her defences seemed to fail. She gave him a look of agonised appeal, then came to him like a child flying from a suddenly realised danger, and dropped down by the side of his chair. ‘Oh, John,’ she cried, clinging to him, ‘save me. I cannot see him--oh, no, no! You don’t know what you ask. Say I am dead. Say I am---- Kill me rather, kill me! It would be kinder. Oh, no, no, no, no! I cannot, I cannot. I’ll rather die. Save me, John!’ A horrible dismay crept through and through him as he bent over her, exclaiming, ‘Mother, mother!’ trying to soothe her--but above all a profound, all-subduing pity. He had his answer; there was no possibility of misunderstanding what this meant: but the sight of the convulsed and broken figure clinging to him in utter self-abandonment penetrated to his very heart. He clasped with his own the hands that held his arm. He put down his head to the face which, full of mortal terror and misery, looked up to him imploring his protection. His protection! for her so strong, so self-sufficing, so immovable. To see her at his feet was more than he could bear. ‘Mother, I will; as far as I can, by every means I can. I will, I will--mother, it breaks my heart to see you. Then it is true, all true?’