Sophie entered. She sat immediately down upon the edge of the bed. Her face was deathly pale and wore no rouge. Her cheeks were sunken. She looked forty. Rather, she would have looked forty but for her eyes. For they were softened, somehow; yet through their softness shone a brilliance that spoke of youth. It was as though some heavy burden had been lifted from her. Clancy could not censure her. Sophie would have been less than human if she had not responded, in some expression, to the hidden relief that must have come to her, even though through tragedy and scandal.
She put her arms quickly round Clancy.
"I think," she said, "that you are the sweetest, bravest person I have ever met."
"Why—why—" stammered Clancy.
"You had every reason to suspect that Don had—done what he did. Mr. Vandervent has told me all that you told him. And yet—you didn't say anything."
"I would have," said Clancy, honestly, "had I been sure."
Sophie nodded gravely.
"But most persons, on the faintest of suspicions, to clear themselves— Oh, I can't talk about it." Suddenly she kissed Clancy. "Miss Deane, I hope—I know—that you are going to be very happy."
She was gone at once. Clancy didn't ponder long over her last remark. She went to sleep, this time in earnest.
It was bright day when she awoke. Mrs. Walbrough entered a moment after Clancy had thrown the coverlets from her and was on her way to the windows, to shut them.