a hundred pounds a year. At first I did it for fun; but when I had seen how—how nice you were—my mother is very poor. There are no excuses. But are you going to forgive me?” Any other woman, to whom forgiveness meant all that it meant to her, might have kneeled at his feet. Frances stood erect by the door. “Anyway,” she said, biting her lip, “I have saved you from Sylvia. For the sake of that, forgive me.”
That stung him, as she had known it would.
“Forgive you?” he said. “Never. You’ve spoiled my life.” But he took a step towards her as he spoke.
She took an equal step back.
“Take courage,” she said. “Who knows but I may die before next June, after all. Good night.”
“I hate you,” he said, and took another step forward. But the door closed in his face.
Next morning the old lady, white haired and mittened, appeared behind the breakfast tea. Michael almost thought he had dreamed, till her eyes, now without their glasses, met his timidly.
