She sat straight in her chair, her hands clasped on her knee.

"Do you know about--me, Dowie ?" she asked.
"Yes, my dear," Dowie answered.
"Tell me what Lord Coombe told you." Dowie put down her sewing because she was afraid her hands would tremble when she tried to find the proper phrase in which to tell as briefly as she could the extraordinary story.
"He said that you were married to a young gentleman who was killed at the Front--and that because you were both so young and hurried and upset you perhaps hadn't done things as regular as you thought.

And that you hadn't the papers you ought to have for proof.

And it might take too much time to search for them now.

And--and--Oh, my love, he's a good man, for all you've hated him so! He won't let a child be born with shame to blight it.