s told me. That's one thing. I'm speaking of what I know by myself. That's another."
"You feel, in other words, that she lies to you?" Bob Assingham more sociably asked.
She neglected the question, treating it as gross. "She never so much, at the time, as named Maggie."
It was so positive that it appeared to strike him. "It's he then who has told you?"
She after a moment admitted it. "It's he."
"And he doesn't lie?"
"No--to do him justice. I believe he absolutely doesn't. If I hadn't believed it," Mrs. Assingham declared, for her general justification, "I would have had nothing to do with him--that is in this connection. He's a gentleman--I mean ALL as much of one as he ought to be. And he had nothing to gain. That helps," she added, "even a gentleman. It was I who named Maggie to him--a year from last May. He had never heard of her before."
"Then it's grave," said the Colonel.
She hesitated. "Do you mean grave for me?"
"Oh, that everything's grave for 'you' is what we take for granted and are fundamentally talking about. It's grave--it WAS-- for Charlotte. And it's grave for Maggie. That is it WAS--when he did see her. Or when she did see HIM."
"You don't torment me as much as you would like," she presently went on, "because you think of nothing that I haven't a thousand times thought of, and because I think of everything that you never will. It would all," she recognised, "have been grave if it hadn't all been right. You can't make out," she contended, "that we got to Rome before the end of February."
He more than agreed. "There's nothing in life, my dear, that I CAN make out."
Well, there was nothing in life, apparently, that she, at real need, couldn't. "Charlotte, who had been there, that year, from early, quite from November, left suddenly, you'll quite remember, about the 10th of April. She was to have stayed on--she was to have stayed, naturally, more or less, for us; and she was to have stayed all the more that the Ververs, due all winter, but delayed, week after week, in Paris, were at l
