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He stood, his face ghastly, staring, incredulous. ‘She hates him,’ he said.

‘Does she? Ask her how she hates him? She has betrayed you.’

He had stumbled forward—the bird with the broken wing—as if with an impulse of escape, and stopped in the middle of the room, staring around him, seeing the way barred. His mother stood before him. ‘Hester couldn’t lie to me,’ he said.

‘She has lied to you,’ said Monica. ‘You see now why she was so anxious to come to live here; so that I should not be lonely any longer.’

The thirsty vengeance of her voice drew his eyes to her and he stood there poised, and looked at her for a long moment. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he then said. ‘If it’s true that he was her lover, it’s not true that he is her lover now. If she has not told me, it’s because she was afraid. Yes,” he looked steadfastly at his mother, drawing, it seemed, assurance from her balefulness, ‘she’s been afraid of you; and of me. She loves me with all her heart and soul; do you understand? As I love her. Every drop of her blood is mine and every drop of mine is hers. Nothing could part us.—She wanted to tell me everything long ago in Cornwall, and I refused to