So Nan wrote her note, and Lettice came.
As it happened, the two had never met. Lettice's preoccupation with her own affairs, Sydney's first resentment, now wearing off, and Nan's subsequent illness, had combined to prevent their forming any acquaintance. But the two women had no sooner clasped hands, and looked into each other's eyes, than they loved one another, and the sense of mental kinship made itself plain between them.
They sat down together on the couch in Nan's private sitting-room and fell into a little aimless talk, which was succeeded by a short, significant silence. Then Nan put out her hand and look Lettice's in her own.
"You know!" she said, in a whisper.
"I know—what?"
"You know all that is wrong between Sydney and myself. You know what made me ill."
"Yes."
"And you know too—that I love him—very dearly." The words were broken by a sob.
"Yes, dear—as he loves you."
"You think so—really?"