rebuking her. Both might be necessary in the future, but she had first to purge a greater crime than any that Helen could have committed—that want of confidence that is the work of the devil.
"Yes, I am annoyed," replied Helen. "My wishes should have been respected. I would have gone through this meeting if it was necessary, but after Aunt Juley recovered, it was not necessary. Planning my life, as I now have to do—"
"Come away from those books," called Margaret. "Helen, do talk to me."
"I was just saying that I have stopped living haphazard. One can't go through a great deal of"—she missed out the noun—"without planning one's actions in advance. I am going to have a child in June, and in the first place conversations, discussions, excitement, are not good for me. I will go through them if necessary, but only then. In the second place I have no right to trouble people. I cannot fit in with England as I know it. I have done something that the English never pardon. It would not be right for them to pardon it. So I must live where I am not known."
"But why didn't you tell me, dearest?"
"Yes," replied Helen judicially. "I might have, but decided to wait."
"I believe you would never have told me."
"Oh yes, I should. We have taken a flat in Munich."
Margaret glanced out of the window.
"By 'we' I mean myself and Monica. But for her, I am and have been and always wish to be alone."
"I have not heard of Monica."
"You wouldn't have. She's an Italian—by birth at least. She makes her living by journalism. I met her originally on Garda. Monica is much the best person to see me through."
"You are very fond of her, then."
"She has been extraordinarily sensible with me."
Margaret guessed at Monica's type—"Italiano Inglesiato" they had named it: the crude feminist of the
