“This isn’t exactly ‘it.’ This is a fresh start altogether. I suppose you know how I hate what I am saying. The position can’t be faced, it’s got to be dodged. It’s not only Gabriel Stanton she’s got hold of....” He did not want to go on, and she found some strange groundless hope in his hesitation. “Not Gabriel Stanton?” she asked, and there seemed more tone in her voice, more interest. She leaned forward. “Perhaps you’d like to see her letter.” He gave it to her, then without a word went over to the other window, turned his face away from her. There was a long silence. Margaret’s face was aflame, but her heart felt like ice. Peter Kennedy to be dragged in, to have to defend herself from such a charge! And Gabriel yet to be told! She covered her eyes, but was conscious presently that the man was standing beside her, speaking. “Margaret!” His voice was as unhappy as hers, his face ravaged. “It is not my fault. I’d give my life it hadn’t happened. That night you had the heart attack I did stay for hours, prowled about ... then slept on the drawing-room sofa. Margaret....” “Oh! hush! hush!” “You must listen, we must think what is best to be done,” he said desperately. “Let me go up to London and see her. I’m sure I can manage something. It’s not ... it’s not as if there were anything in it.” His tactlessness was innate, he meant so well but blundered hopelessly, even putting a hand on her knee in the intensity of his sympathy. She shook it off as if he had been the most obnoxious of insects. “Let me go up and see her,” he pleaded. “Authorise me to act. May I see if there is an answer to my telegram? I sent it a little before nine. May I telephone?” “Do what you like.” “You loathe me.” “I wish you had never been born.” He was gone ten minutes ... a quarter of an hour perhaps. When he came back she had slipped on to the couch, was lying in a huddled-up position. For a moment, one awful moment, he thought she was dead, but when he lifted her he saw she had only fainted. He laid her very gently on the sofa and rang for help, glad of her momentary unconsciousness. He knew what he intended to do now, and to what he must try to persuade her. Stevens came and said, unsympathetically enough: “She’s drored her stays too tight. I told her so this morning.” But she worked about her effectively and presently she struggled back, seeming to have forgotten for the moment what had stricken her. “Have I had another heart attack?” she asked feebly. “No.” “I told you you were lacing too tight. I knew what would happen with these new stays and things.” She actually smiled at Stevens, a wan little smile. “I feel rather seedy still.” Peter took the cushion from her, made her lie flat. Then she said in a puzzled way, her mind working slowly: “Something happened?” There was little time to be lost and he answered awkwardly, abruptly: “I brought you bad news.”