"But Jack?"—she questioned.
"Well, Jack can take you on the drive. You and he have seen very little of each other since you've come; such old friends as you are, too."
"Yes, we are," said Mary, gazing abstractedly at her own face, now, in the mirror, and forgetting both her own transformation and the face that bent above her. A familiar cloud of pain gathered within her and, suddenly, she found herself bursting out with:—"Oh, Mrs. Upton—I am so unhappy about Jack!"
Valerie, in the mirror, gave her a keen, quick glance. "I am, too, Mary," she said.
Mary, at this, turned in her chair to look up at her:—"You see, you feel it, too!"
"That he is unhappy? Yes, I see and feel it."
"And you care;—I am sure that you care."
"I care very much. I love Jack very much."
Mary seized her hand and tears filled her eyes. "Oh, you are a dear!—One must love him when one really knows him, mustn't one?—Mrs. Upton, I've known Jack all my life and he is simply one of the noblest, deepest, realest people in the whole world."
"I am sure of that."