know, as though there were something _behind_ it.

 

I can’t help thinking, Flora dear, that it was a very fortunate thing your

engagement was never formally announced.”

 

“Mother!” cried Flora angrily.

 

“Providence,” declared Mrs. Ackroyd. “I have a devout belief in Providence—a

divinity that shapes our ends, as Shakespeare’s beautiful line runs.”

 

“Surely you don’t make the Almighty directly responsible for thick ankles, Mrs.

Ackroyd, do you?” asked Geoffrey Raymond, his irresponsible laugh ringing out.

 

His idea was, I think, to loosen the tension, but Mrs. Ackroyd threw him a

glance of reproach and took out her handkerchief.

 

“Flora has been saved a terrible amount of notoriety and unpleasantness. Not for

a moment that I think dear Ralph had anything to do with poor Roger’s death. I

_don’t_ think so. But then I have a trusting heart—I always have had, ever since

a child. I am loath to believe the worst of any one. But, of course, one must

remember that Ralph was in several air raids as a young boy. The results are

apparent long after, sometimes, they say. People are not responsible for their

actions in the least. They lose control, you know, without being able to help

it.”