She had a feeling of dread--a numb, sweet feeling that she could not explain, except that under all of it lay the proud consciousness that he was a man who had courage, a man who was not afraid.
"How silly I am," she said, half aloud in her abstraction.
She turned her gaze away from the blinking light in the hills, a queer, guilty smile on her lips.

The wistful, shamed smile faded as she looked upon the couple who had given her so much trouble a week ago.

She felt, with a hot flash of self-abasement, as if she was morally responsible for the consequences that seemed likely to attend Lady Deppingham's indiscretions.
Across the garden from where she was flaying herself bitterly, Lady Deppingham's husband was saying in low, agitated tones to Bobby Browne's wife, with occasional furtive glances at the two solitaire workers: "Now, see here, Brasilia, I'm not saying that our--that is, Lady Deppingham and Bobby--are accountable for what has happened, but that doesn't make it any more pleasant! It's of little consequence _who_ is trying to poison us, don't you know.

And all that.

_They_ wouldn't do it, I'm sure, but _somebody_ is! That's what I mean, d'ye see?
Lady Dep--" "I _know_ my husband wouldn't--couldn't do such a thing, Lord Deppingham," came from Drusilla's stiff lips, almost as a moan.