Olivia could not wreak her anger yet on the frail woman. But in her heart burned a furious indignation. She controlled her voice, and said as gently as she could: “Why have you left me in ignorance for the past year?” “I was biding my time,” said Myra. “I was waiting for a sign and a token.” “From me?” “From you, dearie. I had him here in the hollow of my hand. If you had wanted him, I could have given him to you. But you didn’t want him—so you said. I wasn’t so sure.” She stretched her thin hand on the blanket, but Olivia stood, too much enwrapped in her thoughts to notice the appeal. “When I first saw him in hospital I hoped that he would die and set you free. But when I saw him convalescent, my heart was full of pity for him, and I repented of the sin of committing murder in my heart. And when I heard from my sister in-law that he was facing life like a brave man, I wondered whether I had been wrong and whether you had been wrong. If I say something to you, will you be angry with me?” Olivia shrugged her shoulders. “Say anything you like.” The weak, even voice went on. “If Major Olifant hadn’t left us, I should have told you.” Olivia leaped at the thrust, her cheeks flaming. “Myra! How dare you?” The thin lips parted in a half smile. “Have you ever known me not to dare anything for your good?” Myra, with all the privileges of illness, had her at a disadvantage. Olivia was silenced. She unpinned her hat and threw it on a chair and sat by the bedside. “I see that you acted for the best, Myra.” Not only her cheeks, but her body flamed at what seemed now the humiliating allusion. Myra was fully aware, if not of the actual kiss—oh, no—nothing horrible of servant’s espionage in Myra—at any rate of the emotionality in which it had culminated—on her part sex, sense, the unexpected thrill, the elemental between man and woman, the hunger for she knew not what—but superficial, tearing at her nerves, but never, oh, never touching the bed-rock of her spiritual being. A great passionate love for Blaise, she knew, Myra with her direct vision, would have understood. For the assurance of her life’s happiness Myra would have sacrificed her hope of eternal salvation. But the worn woman who had had but one’s week’s great fulfilment of love in her life, knew what love meant, and she had sounded the shallows of her pitiful love—if love it could be called—for Blaise Olifant; and now, in her sad, fatalistic way she shewed her the poor markings of the lead. “So you have seen him?” asked Myra quietly. “Yes I’ve seen him. God knows how you know.” “Well?” Her overstrained soul gave way. She broke into uncontrollable crying and sobbing, her little dark head on the blanket by Myra’s side. And after a little came incoherent words.