"Indeed!" she said. "Yet you might know me better." Here she touched
my arm with the tips of her fingers, and, in spite of myself, I felt my
pulse beat faster. It seemed to me that in her presence, even now,
I could not quite trust myself. "Indeed!" she repeated. "And who made
you omniscient, Dr. Marmion? You hardly do yourself justice. You hold a
secret. You insist on reminding me of the fact. Is that in perfect
gallantry? Do you know me altogether, from your knowledge of that one
thing? You are vain. Or does the secret wear on you, and--Mr.
Hungerford? Was it necessary to seek HIS help in keeping it?"

I told her then the true history of Hungerford's connection with Boyd
Madras, and also begged her pardon for showing just now my knowledge of
her secret. At this she said, "I suppose I should be grateful," and was
there a slightly softer cadence to her voice?

"No, you need not be grateful," I said. "We are silent, first, because
he wished it; then because you are a woman."

"You define your reasons with astonishing care and taste," she replied.

"Oh, as to taste!--" said I; but then I bit my tongue.

At that she said, her lips very firm and pale, "I could not pretend
to a grief I did not feel. I acted no lie. He died as we had lived--
estranged. I put up no memorials."

But I, thinking of my mother lying in her grave, a woman after God's own
heart, who loved me more than I deserved, repeated almost unconsciously
these lines (clipped from a magazine):