"I'm afraid of meeting her."

"It isn't likely that you ever will. She isn't the sort one does
meet--now, poor thing."

"Who was she?"

"The wife of Sir Andrew Cayley, a tallow-chandler."

"Oh, how did Walter ever--"

"My dear, one meets all sorts of funny people in Scale. He was a very
wealthy tallow-chandler. Besides, it wasn't he that Walter did meet,
naturally."

"How can you joke about it? It makes me sick to think of it."

"It made me sick enough once, dear. But I don't think of it."

"I can't help thinking of it."

"Well, whenever you do, when it does come over you--it will,
sometimes--think of what Walter's life was before he knew you. Everything
was spoiled for him because of me. He was sent to a place he detested
because of me; put into an office which he loathed, shut up here in this
hateful house, because of me. And he was good to me, good and dear. Even
at the worst he hardly ever left me if he thought I wanted him--not even
to go to _her_. But he was young, and it was an awful life for him; you
don't know how awful. It would have been bad enough for a woman. It was
intolerable for a man. I was worse then than I am now. I was horribly