"Oh, a man you know—Crayven, that Englishman, you remember."
"And how does he happen to write to you like that? Where have you seen him?"
"He was in the Val d'Iliez this summer."
"You never mentioned him to me."
"No."
"Why didn't you?"
"I didn't choose to."
"Do you mean to tell me about this now?"
Teresa was silent, looking away through the slanting shadows of the orchard. Basil was looking at her, quite pale. She shook her head finally.
"Not on demand. You've no right to demand it. I shall tell you if I choose, when I choose."
"Very well, Teresa. I don't know what you've done, I don't know whether you know what you're doing now—I don't understand the thing. Do as you like, of course, about telling me."
He went into the house, and Teresa sat still, in one position, till tea was brought out, when she got up, her whole body aching from constraint. Basil sent out word that he didn't want any tea and that he was going to town for dinner. Ronald ran up for his bit of cake; and when Basil, with a curt "Good-bye," departed, trotted down to the gate with him. Basil called over his shoulder:
"I may not be back to-night."
