For the first time he was completely out of composure. It was the last response he had expected. He took a moment to collect his wits.

"Of course you are distressed," he said placatingly. "I cannot imagine how ..." He was not sure what word he wished to use.

“I can see that you cannot," she agreed, now finding it increasingly difficult to stop herself from weeping. Her anger at him, at her mother, at the whole terrible situation, was now at last releasing the emotion she had kept in check all through the endless and searing days of the trial. "But please do not apologize. It hardly matters. I am sure you have done extremely well the job you were engaged for. We are suitably obliged to you."

She could not have been more effective had she slapped his face.

Rathbone's estimation of her soared. It was more difficult than ever to understand why Melville did not wish to marry her—unless Sacheverall's charge was true. It was the only explanation which made sense. But then, knowing his inclination, he was irresponsible at best for having wooed her, grossly cruel at worst, using her simply to gain her father's patronage and possibly to mask his own affair with Wolff by seeming to have interests elsewhere.

But he would not be the first man of genius to have a moral sense which was distorted by egocentricity into total selfishness. Rathbone should not have been disappointed; it was foolish, even naive. A man of his age and sophistication should have known better.

But the pain of it was startlingly sharp. He wanted to admire Melville. He could not help liking him.

Delphine was talking soothingly to Sacheverall, trying to repair the damage. From the look upon his face she was succeeding. Presumably with Melville excluded, he was an acceptable match. He was the right age, his family was excellent, his career prospects good, and he had more than enough money not to be courting her for merely financial reasons, although such a marriage would undoubtably improve his situation.

Barton Lambert had taken little part in the exchange. He was standing with his hands pushed deep into his pockets, and two or three times he had looked towards Rathbone as if he wished to speak to him. But it was too late to make any difference now. His whole posture was one of deep unhappiness, and Rathbone guessed he regretted the whole affair. His affection for Melville had been real. It could not be swept away by any revelation, no matter how dark. Emotions do not often turn so entirely in so short a space. The wound was raw, and it showed. He was an unusual man in that he did not seek to alleviate it with anger.

Rathbone admired him for that. Perhaps Zillah did not gain all her refinement of character from her mother.