It was a pity that, somehow, to settle this once for all,
I had equally to re-enumerate the signs of subtlety that,
in the afternoon, by the lake had made a miracle of my show
of self-possession. It was a pity to be obliged to reinvestigate
the certitude of the moment itself and repeat how it had come
to me as a revelation that the inconceivable communion I
then surprised was a matter, for either party, of habit.
It was a pity that I should have had to quaver out again
the reasons for my not having, in my delusion, so much
as questioned that the little girl saw our visitant even
as I actually saw Mrs. Grose herself, and that she wanted,
by just so much as she did thus see, to make me suppose she
didn't, and at the same time, without showing anything,
arrive at a guess as to whether I myself did! It was a pity
that I needed once more to describe the portentous little activity
by which she sought to divert my attention--the perceptible
increase of movement, the greater intensity of play, the singing,
the gabbling of nonsense, and the invitation to romp.
Yet if I had not indulged, to prove there was nothing in it,
in this review, I should have missed the two or three dim elements
of comfort that still remained to me. I should not for instance have
been able to asseverate to my friend that I was certain--which was
so much to the good--that _I_ at least had not betrayed myself.
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