“That, and much more.  We cannot stop at the point you’ve reached.  Besides, I have a question to ask.”

Lizzie passed before her into the front room, lit two candles and drew down the blind.

“Ask it,” she said.

“How did you know that I believed the other—­Mr. Raymond—­to be—­” She came to a halt.

“I guessed.”

“What?  From the beginning?”

“No; it was after a long while.  And then, all of a sudden, something seemed to make me clever.”

“Did you know that, believing it, I had done him a great wrong—­ injured his life beyond repair?”

“I knew something had happened:  that he’d given up being a gentleman and taken to builder’s work.  I thought maybe you were at the bottom of it.  Who was it told you lies about en?”

“Must I answer that?”

“No; no need.  George Vyell was a nice fellow; but he was a liar.  Couldn’t help it, I b’lieve.  But a dirty trick like that—­well, well!”

Honoria stared at her, confounded.  “You never loved my husband?”

And Lizzie laughed—­actually laughed; she was so weary.  “No more than you did, my dear.  Perhaps a little less.  Eh, what two fools we are here, fending off the truth!  Fools from the start—­and now, simme, playing foolish to the end; ay, when all’s said and naked atween us.  Lev’ us quit talkin’ of George Vyell.  We knawed George Vyell, you and me too; and here we be, left to rear children by en.  But the man we hated over wasn’ George Vyell.”

“Yet if—­as you say—­you loved him—­the other one—­why, when you saw his life ruined and guessed the lie that ruined it—­when a word could have righted him—­if you loved him—­”

“Why didn’t I speak?  Ladies are most dull, somehow; or else you don’t try to see.  Or else—­Wasn’t he near me, passing my door ivery day?  Oh, I’m ignorant and selfish.  But hadn’t I got him near?  And wouldn’t that word have lost him, sent him God knows where—­to you perhaps?  You—­you’d had your chance, and squandered it like a fool.  I never had no chance.  I courted en, but he wouldn’ look at me.  He’d have come to your whistle—­once.  Nothing to hinder but your money.  And from what I can see and guess, you piled up that money in his face like a hedge.  Oh, I could pity you, now!—­for now you’ll never have en.”

“God pity us both!” said Honoria, going; but she turned at the door.  “And after our marriage you took no more thought of my—­of George?” The question was an afterthought; she never thought to see it stab as it did.  But Lizzie caught at the table edge, held to it swaying over a gulf of hysterics, and answered between a sob and a passing bitter laugh.

“At the last—­just to try en.  No harm done, as it happened.  You needn’ mind.  He was worthless anyway.”

Honoria stepped back, took her by the elbow as she swayed, and seated her in a chair; and so stood regarding her as a doctor might a patient.  After a while she said—­