After telling me about Phyllis, she returned to the point where she had broken off. She supposed that Gedge had been talking all over the place. "I don't think so, dear," said I. "So far as I know he has only spoken, first to Randall Holmes--that was what made him break away from Gedge, whose society he had been cultivating for other reasons than those I imagined (you remember telling me Phyllis's sorrowful little tale last year?)." She nodded. "And secondly to Sir Anthony and myself, a few hours before the Reception." She clenched her fists and broke out again. "The devil! The incarnate devil! And Sir Anthony?" "Pretended to treat Gedge's story as a lie, threw into the fire without reading it an incriminating letter--possibly the letter that Phyllis saw, ordered Gedge out of the house and, like a great gentleman, went through the ceremony." "Does Leonard know?" "Not that I'm aware of," said I. "He must be told. It's terrible to have an enemy waiting to stab you in the dark--and you blind to boot. Why haven't you told him?" Why? Why? Why? It was so hard to keep to the lower key of her conception of things. I made a little gesture signifying I know not what: that it was not my business, that I was not on sufficient terms of intimacy with Boyce, that it didn't seem important enough .... My helpless shrug suggested, I suppose, all of these excuses. Why hadn't I warned him? Cowardice, I suppose. "Either you or I must do it," she went on. "You're his friend. He thinks more of you than of any other man in the world. And he's right, dear--" she flashed me a proud glance, sweet and stabbing--"Don't I know it?" Then suddenly a new idea seemed to pass through her brain. She bent forward and touched the light shawl covering my knees. "For the last month or two you've known what he has done. It hasn't made any difference in your friendship. You must think with me that the past is past, that he has purged his sins, or whatever you like to call them; that he is a man greatly to be forgiven." "Yes, dear," said I, with a show of bravery, though I dreaded lest my voice should break, "I think he is a man to be forgiven." Her logic was remorseless. With her frank grace she threw herself, in her old attitude, by the side of my chair. "I'm so glad we have had this talk, Majy darling. It has made everything between us so clear and beautiful. It is always such a grief to me to think you may not understand. I shall always be the little girl that looked upon you as a wonderful hero and divine dispenser of chocolates. Only now the chocolates stand for love and forbearance and sympathy, and all kinds of spiritual goodies." I passed my hand over her hair. "Silly child!" "I got it into my head," she continued, "that you were blaming me for--for my reconciliation with Leonard. But, my dear, my dear, what woman's heart wouldn't be turned to water at the sight of him? It makes me so happy that you understand. I can't tell you how happy."