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you and Hester, I mean?—Because they are very unhappy; she and Clive are unhappy. She is angry with him, I’m afraid;—because of what happened.—Could you tell me, do you think? Do you think I could help a little?—Because I feel as if I understood you all and could, perhaps, make things clearer.’

For one moment, as she looked at her, Monica knew the wild impulse to break down before Celia, to tell her all, to ask, indeed, her help and sympathy: but, steadying her mind, as if over a whirlpool vortex, she said, in a cold voice: ‘Yes; I think something did happen, Celia, and perhaps, some day, I shall be able to explain what seems strange to you. But I can’t talk about Hester and Clive now. Not till I’ve seen Clive again, alone. We must find other topics.—Only this I’ll say:—Hester had no right, not the shadow of a right to be angry with him. Nothing passed between Hester and me that gave her a right to be angry with Clive. Don’t try to intercede for her, my dear. When I tell you my story you will feel, I think, that it is Clive and I, not Hester, who are in need of pity.’