Mary’s look was grave again, though it thanked him. “You are kind. Camelia has been very unhappy,” the words were spoken suddenly, and almost with energy.
“I don’t doubt that.” Mary closed her eyes, as if all effort, even the passive effort of sight, must be concentrated in her words.
“And I am afraid—she will be very unhappy about me.”
“That is unavoidable.”
“But—unjust. She is nothing—that I thought. Nothing is her fault. It is no one’s fault.—I was born—not rich, not pretty, not clever, not even contented; it is no one’s fault. I have been cruel. You must comfort her,” and Mary suddenly opening her eyes looked at him fixedly. “You must comfort her,” she repeated, adding, “I know that you love Camelia.”
Perior, with some shame, felt the red go over his face. Mary observed his confusion calmly.
“You need not mind telling me,” she said.
“Dear Mary, I am abased before you.”
“That isn’t kind to me,” Mary smiled. “You do love her—do you not?”
“Yes, I love her.”