For an instant she became as haughty as so sweet a nature knew how to be, but the prompting passed.
"No; you don't offend me," she said, after a brief pause. "We're friends, aren't we, in spite of—"
As she hesitated I filled in the phrase.
"In spite of the difference between us."
Because she was pursuing her own thoughts she allowed that to pass.
"People have gone over cataracts—and still lived."
"Ah, but there's more to existence than life," I exclaimed, promptly.
"There was a friend of my own," she continued, without immediate reference to my observation; "at least she was a friend—I suppose she is still—her name was Madeline Grimshaw—"
"Yes, Mrs. Pyne; but she wasn't Mrs. Brokenshire."
"No; she never was so unhappy." She pressed her handkerchief against the two great tears that rolled down her cheeks. "She did love Mr. Grimshaw at one time, whereas I—"