The curate had great command of himself, and was on his guard; nevertheless she felt a thrill in the hand that held hers: Susie sensitive, and prepared to suffer, as are the unfortunate, attempted to draw hers away--but he held it fast; and when he spoke, which was not for a minute, he said, with a movement of his head, ‘I think I remember now.’ The grave look, the assenting nod, the tone were all too much for her excited nerves. She drew her hand out of his violently. ‘Then if you remember,’ cried Susie, ‘you know that it was disgrace no one could shake off. You know it was shame to bow us to the dust; that we never could hold up our heads, nor take our place with honest people, nor be friends, nor love, nor marry, with such a weight upon us as that; and now you know why John, poor John, oh, poor John!’ She hurried away from the table where the curate sat, regarding her with that compassionate look, and threw herself into her grandfather’s chair which stood dutifully by the side of the blank fireplace where Elly and John had placed it. Her simple open countenance, which had hid that secret beneath all the natural candour and truth of a character which was serene as the day, was flushed with trouble and misery. Life seemed to have revealed its sweeter mysteries to Susie only to show her how far apart she must keep herself from honest people, as she said. And her heart cried out--almost for the first time on its own account. Her thoughts had chimed in with her mother’s miseries, but had not felt them, save sympathetically; now her own time had come--and John’s--John’s, who knew nothing, who must have discovered everything at one stroke; he who was not humble, nor diffident, but so certain of himself and all that he could do. What did it matter for anybody in comparison with John? Mr. Cattley did not disturb her for some time. He let that passion wear itself out. Then he went and stood with his back to the fireplace, as Englishmen use, though it was empty. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘that we understand, let us lay our heads together and think what can be done.’ ‘There is nothing to be done,’ said Susie. ‘Oh, Mr. Cattley, go away, don’t pity me. I can’t bear it. There is only one thing for me to do, and that is to go home to mother and John.’ ‘I do not pity you,’ he said, ‘far from that. You have got the same work as the angels have. Why should I pity you? It hurts them too, perhaps, if they are as fair spirits as we think. But I am going with you, Susie: for two, even when the second is not good for much, are better than one.’ She clasped her hands and looked up at him with a gaze of entreaty. ‘Don’t,’ she cried, ‘don’t mix yourself up with us! Oh, go away to the people who are fond of you, to the people who are your equals. What has a clergyman to do with a man who has been in prison? Oh, never mind me, Mr. Cattley. I am going to my own belongings. We must all put up with it together the best way we can.’