"I'll tell you. You and Derry--all the decent men--a toy dog fetches you every time. You're all so, _so_ kind! You see tragedies and empty cradles and all the rest of it straight away. And perhaps once in a while you're right. But you can take it from me you're wrong this time. I've known her all my life, and I don't believe she ever for a single moment wanted a child. She'd never have put up with the bother of one. So Derry's worrying all about nothing. All that sticks in her throat is that she imagines she's been pilloried as not being able to have one. Her vanity was hurt, not her motherhood at all. Now that she's got rid of that bookful of bile I think she's a perfectly happy woman. Her days are just one succession of shopping and matinées and calls and manicuring and Turkish baths and getting rid of Bassett's money. It was just the same during the war--flag-days and driving convalescents about, and bits of canteen-work and committees by the score.... Oh, Derry needn't worry his head; tragedy's quite out of the picture! Let's have the truth. No weeping Niobe--just scents and powders and Puppetty and an imaginary grievance--that's her." I think it is my own sex that is the merciful one, at any rate to woman. Man has made radiant veils for her, has shut his eyes to this or that stark aspect of her, because the world has to go on by his efforts and he cannot afford to begin his scheme of things all over again every time he sees the red light of the prime in a woman's eyes. Julia Oliphant had spoken cruelly, ruthlessly, without decency; and I now knew why. No woman cares that a wrong is done in the abstract. Her bitterness and hate ever mean that someone dear to her has been subjected to indignity and pain. And suddenly I rose from my seat, crossed to the settee, and, sitting down by Julia Oliphant's side, did a thing I am not in the habit of doing upon a short acquaintance. I took both her hands into mine. With as little hesitation as I had taken them her fingers closed on mine. And I fancied the quick strong pressure answered the question I was going to ask her before ever my lips spoke it. It had all been there months before--all prepared and promised in that first steady intimate look across the rosy-shaded candles of that dinner-table. I spoke quite quietly. "Isn't there something I'd better know--and hadn't you better tell me now?" I said. Again that firm cool pressure of the fingers. The tired eyes looked gratefully into mine. "I always knew you'd be like that if only----" "Then tell me. Because when you've done I've something to tell you." God knows what fires were instantly ablaze in the depths of the eyes. "About him?" broke instantly from her lips. "You tell me first." The fires died down, and the voice dropped again. "Tell you? I don't mind telling you.... Of course; all my life; ever since we were children together. Not that he ever gave me a thought. But that made no difference."