But he had found
that sweet and good women were not invariably intelligent. As for
honesty, if they were always honest they would not always be sweet and
good.
Through the door he opened for the eldest sister to pass out the other
slipped in. She had been waiting on the landing.
He stopped her. He made a sign to her to come out with him. He closed
the door behind them.
"Can I see you for two minutes?"
"Yes."
They whispered rapidly.
At the head of the stairs Mary waited. He turned. His smile
acknowledged and paid deference to her sweetness and goodness, for
Rowcliffe was sufficiently accomplished.
But not more so than Mary Cartaret. Her face, wide and candid,
quivered with subdued interrogation. Her lips parted as if they said,
"I am only waiting to know what I am to do. I will do what you like,
only tell me."
Rowcliffe stood by the bedroom door, which he had opened for her
to pass through again. His eyes, summoning their powerful pathos,
implored forgiveness.
Mary, utterly submissive, passed through.
* * * * *
He followed Gwendolen Cartaret downstairs to the dining-room.
He knew what he was going to say, but what he did say was unexpected.
For, as she stood there in the small and old and shabby room, what
struck him was her youth.
"Is your father in?" he said.
He surprised her as he had surprised himself.
"No," she said. "Why? Do you want to see him?"
He hesitated.
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