After all, if she would reveal her thoughts, she
must take the consequences.
"I know you did," she retorted with equal sharpness.
"Lilia saw him several times again, and I knew I ought to
interfere. I called her to my bedroom one night. She was
very frightened, for she knew what it was about and how
severe I could be. 'Do you love this man?' I asked. 'Yes
or no?' She said 'Yes.' And I said, 'Why don't you marry him
if you think you'll be happy?' "
"Really--really," exploded Philip, as exasperated as if
the thing had happened yesterday. "You knew Lilia all your
life. Apart from everything else--as if she could choose
what could make her happy!"
"Had you ever let her choose?" she flashed out. "I'm
afraid that's rude," she added, trying to calm herself.
"Let us rather say unhappily expressed," said Philip,
who always adopted a dry satirical manner when he was puzzled.
"I want to finish. Next morning I found Signor Carella
and said the same to him. He--well, he was willing. That's all."
"And the telegram?" He looked scornfully out of the window.
Hitherto her voice had been hard, possibly in
self-accusation, possibly in defiance. Now it became
unmistakably sad. "Ah, the telegram! That was wrong.
Lilia there was more cowardly than I was. We should have
told the truth. It lost me my nerve, at all events. I came
to the station meaning to tell you everything then. But we
had started with a lie, and I got frightened.
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