himself on the sofa on which, shortly before, Mrs. Beever had sunk down to sob, and, as if with the need to hold on to something, buried his face in one of the hard, square cushions. She came a little nearer to him; she went on with her low lucidity: "So you can't abandon me—you can't. You came to me through doubts—you spoke to me through fears. You're mine!"
She left him to turn this over; she moved off and approached the door at which Mrs. Beever had gone out, standing there in strained attention till, in the silence, Dennis at last raised his head. "What is it you look to me to do?" he asked.
She came away from the door. "Simply to see me through."
He was on his feet again. "Through what, in the name of horror?"
"Through everything. If I count on you, it's to support me. If I say things, it's for you to say them."
"Even when they're black lies?" Dennis brought out.
Her answer was immediate. "What need should I have of you if they were white ones?" He was
