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h her sentence.
"I have not been a fool twice."
Agnes did not understand.
"My dense lady, can't you follow? I have not told Stephen one single word, neither before nor now."
There was a long silence.
Indeed, Mrs. Failing was in an awkward position.
Rickie had irritated her, and, in her desire to shock him, she had imperilled her own peace. She had felt so unconventional upon the hillside, when she loosed the horror against him; but now it was darting at her as well. Suppose the scandal came out. Stephen, who was absolutely without delicacy, would tell it to the people as soon as tell them the time. His paganism would be too assertive; it might even be in bad taste. After all, she had a prominent position in the neighbourhood; she was talked about, respected, looked up to. After all, she was growing old. And therefore, though she had no true regard for Rickie, nor for Agnes, nor for Stephen, nor for Stephen's parents, in whose tragedy she had assisted, yet she did feel that if the scandal revived it would disturb the harmony of Cadover, and therefore tried to retrace her steps. It is easy to say shocking things: it is so different to be connected with anything shocking. Life and death were not involved, but comfort and discomfort were.
The silence was broken by the sound of feet on the gravel. Agnes said hastily, "Is that really true--that he knows nothing?"
"You, Rickie, and I are the only people alive that know. He realizes what he is--with a precision that is sometimes alarming. Who he is, he doesn't know and doesn't care. I suppose he would know when I'm dead. There are papers."
"Aunt Emily, before he comes, may I say to you I'm sorry I was so rude?"
Mrs. Failing had not disliked her courage. "My dear, you may. We're all off our hinges this Sunday. Sit down by me again."
Agnes obeyed, and they awaited the arrival of Stephen. They were clever enough to understand each other. The thing must be hushed up. The matron must repair the conse
