II

“I like your friend,” said Adelaide Jefferson to Mrs. Bantry.

The two women were sitting on the terrace.

“Jane Marple’s a very remarkable woman,” said Mrs. Bantry.

“She’s nice too,” said Addie, smiling.

“People call her a scandalmonger,” said Mrs. Bantry, “but she isn’treally.”

“Just a low opinion of human nature?”

“You could call it that.”

“It’s rather refreshing,” said Adelaide Jefferson, “after having had toomuch of the other thing.”

Mrs. Bantry looked at her sharply.

Addie explained herself.

“So much high-thinking—idealization of an unworthy object!”

“You mean Ruby Keene?”

Addie nodded.

“I don’t want to be horrid about her. There wasn’t any harm in her. Poorlittle rat, she had to fight for what she wanted. She wasn’t bad. Commonand rather silly and quite good-natured, but a decided little gold-digger. Idon’t think she schemed or planned. It was just that she was quick to takeadvantage of a possibility. And she knew just how to appeal to an elderlyman who was—lonely.”

“I suppose,” said Mrs. Bantry thoughtfully, “that Conway was lonely?”

Addie moved restlessly. She said:

“He was — this summer.” She paused and then burst out: “Mark willhave it that it was all my fault. Perhaps it was, I don’t know.”

She was silent for a minute, then, impelled by some need to talk, shewent on speaking in a difficult, almost reluctant way.

“I—I’ve had such an odd sort of life. Mike Carmody, my first husband,died so soon after we were married—it—it knocked me out. Peter, as youknow, was born after his death. Frank Jefferson was Mike’s great friend.

So I came to see a lot of him. He was Peter’s godfather—Mike had wantedthat. I got very fond of him—and—oh! sorry for him too.”

“Sorry?” queried Mrs. Bantry with interest.

“Yes, just that. It sounds odd. Frank had always had everything hewanted. His father and his mother couldn’t have been nicer to him. Andyet — how can I say it? — you see, old Mr. Jefferson’s personality is sostrong. If you live with it, you can’t somehow have a personality of yourown. Frank felt that.

“When we were married he was very happy—wonderfully so. Mr. Jef-ferson was very generous. He settled a large sum of money on Frank—said he wanted his children to be independent and not have to wait for hisdeath. It was so nice of him—so generous. But it was much too sudden. Heought really to have accustomed Frank to independence little by little.

“It went to Frank’s head. He wanted to be as good a man as his father, asclever about money and business, as far-seeing and successful. And, ofcourse, he wasn’t. He didn’t exactly speculate with the money, but he in-vested in the wrong things at the wrong time. It’s frightening, you know,how soon money goes if you’re not clever about it. The more Frankdropped, the more eager he was to get it back by some clever deal. Sothings went from bad to worse.”

“But, my dear,” said Mrs. Bantry, “couldn’t Conway have advised him?”

“He didn’t want to be advised. The one thing he wanted was to do wellon his own. That’s why we never let Mr. Jefferson know. When Frank diedthere was very little left—only a tiny income for me. And I—I didn’t let hisfather know either. You see—”

She turned abruptly.

“It would have felt like betraying Frank to him. Frank would have hatedit so. Mr. Jefferson was ill for a long time. When he got well he assumedthat I was a very-well-off widow. I’ve never undeceived him. It’s been apoint of honour. He knows I’m very careful about money — but he ap-proves of that, thinks I’m a thrifty sort of woman. And, of course, Peterand I have lived with him practically ever since, and he’s paid for all ourliving expenses. So I’ve never had to worry.”

She said slowly:

“We’ve been like a family all these years—only—only—you see (or don’tyou see?) I’ve never been Frank’s widow to him—I’ve been Frank’s wife.”

Mrs. Bantry grasped the implication.

“You mean he’s never accepted their deaths?”

“No. He’s been wonderful. But he’s conquered his own terrible tragedyby refusing to recognize death. Mark is Rosamund’s husband and I’mFrank’s wife—and though Frank and Rosamund aren’t exactly here withus—they are still existent.”

Mrs. Bantry said softly:

“It’s a wonderful triumph of faith.”

“I know. We’ve gone on, year after year. But suddenly—this summer—something went wrong in me. I felt—I felt rebellious. It’s an awful thing tosay, but I didn’t want to think of Frank anymore! All that was over—mylove and companionship with him, and my grief when he died. It wassomething that had been and wasn’t any longer.

“It’s awfully hard to describe. It’s like wanting to wipe the slate cleanand start again. I wanted to be me—Addie, still reasonably young andstrong and able to play games and swim and dance—just a person. EvenHugo—(you know Hugo McLean?) he’s a dear and wants to marry me, but,of course, I’ve never really thought of it—but this summer I did begin tothink of it—not seriously—only vaguely….”

She stopped and shook her head.

“And so I suppose it’s true. I neglected Jeff. I don’t mean really neglectedhim, but my mind and thoughts weren’t with him. When Ruby, as I saw,amused him, I was rather glad. It left me freer to go and do my ownthings. I never dreamed—of course I never dreamed—that he would be so—so—infatuated by her!”

Mrs. Bantry asked:

“And when you did find out?”

“I was dumbfounded—absolutely dumbfounded! And, I’m afraid, angrytoo.”

“I’d have been angry,” said Mrs. Bantry.

“There was Peter, you see. Peter’s whole future depends on Jeff. Jeffpractically looked on him as a grandson, or so I thought, but, of course, hewasn’t a grandson. He was no relation at all. And to think that he was go-ing to be—disinherited!” Her firm, well-shaped hands shook a little wherethey lay in her lap. “For that’s what it felt like—and for a vulgar, gold-dig-ging little simpleton—Oh! I could have killed her!”

She stopped, stricken. Her beautiful hazel eyes met Mrs. Bantry’s in apleading horror. She said:

“What an awful thing to say!”

Hugo McLean, coming quietly up behind them, asked:

“What’s an awful thing to say?”

“Sit down, Hugo. You know Mrs. Bantry, don’t you?”

McLean had already greeted the older lady. He said now in a low, per-severing way:

“What was an awful thing to say?”

Addie Jefferson said:

“That I’d like to have killed Ruby Keene.”

Hugo McLean reflected a minute or two. Then he said:

“No, I wouldn’t say that if I were you. Might be misunderstood.”

His eyes—steady, reflective, grey eyes—looked at her meaningly.

He said:

“You’ve got to watch your step, Addie.”

There was a warning in his voice.