‘We’ve gone over all that,’ cried Elly, with an impatient wave of her hand. ‘And what does it matter--to anybody, now-a-days? It is all exploded; it is all antiquated. Nobody thinks of such a thing now. And Jack knows well enough. Besides, it is ridiculous,’ cried the girl; ‘he is--well, if you must have it, he is conceited, he is proud of himself, he is no more humble about it than if he were a king. Do you think I’m a fool not to know his faults? I’ve known them all my life. I like his faults!’ Elly said. And then there was again a pause. Nobody spoke. It became very apparent to both these anxious questioners--to Elly, when the fumes of her own eager speech died away, and to Mr. Cattley, who was calmer--that Susie did not wish to make any reply, that she knew something of which this was the natural consequence, something which she was determined not to tell, something which was serious enough to justify John’s letter, which showed that it was no fantastic notion on his part, but a reality. Susie herself was dimly aware, even though she had her eyes on her work as before, that they were looking at her with keen examination, and also in her mind that they were coming to this inevitable conclusion: but what could she do? ‘Every family,’ she said, faltering, ‘has its little secrets, or at least something it keeps to itself. I don’t know that there is more with us than with other people----’ But her voice would not keep steady. ‘The only thing,’ she went on, sharply, feeling a resource in a little anger, ‘is that people generally--keep these things to themselves;--but John, it seems that John----’ And here she came to a dead stop and said no more. Elly had grown graver and graver while Susie spoke. Her excitement and impatience to know, fell still, as a lively breeze will sometimes do in a moment. Her eyes, which Susie could not meet, seemed to read the very outline of the drooping figure, the bent head, the nervous stumbling hands so busy with work which they were incapable of doing. Elly’s face settled into something very serious. She flung her head back with the air of one taking a definite resolution. ‘In that case,’ she said, lingering a little over the words in case they might call forth an answer, ‘in that case, I think I had better go.’ Mr. Cattley, much perplexed, went with her to the door. He went up the street with her, his face very grave too, almost solemn. ‘Don’t do anything rash, Elly,’ he said. ‘We know Jack. I--I can’t think he is to blame.’ ‘To blame!’ Elly said, with her head high, as if the suggestion were an insult. Then she added, after a moment, ‘Yes, he’s to blame, as everybody is that makes a mystery. Whatever it is, he might have known that he could trust me; that is the only way in which he can be to blame.’