"I shall never get used to it," Diane cried, springing to her feet—"never, never!"
"It will be hard for you to do without all you've had—when you've had so much—but—"
"Oh, it isn't that," Diane broke in, fiercely. "It isn't for me. I can do well enough. It's for you."
"Don't worry about me, dear. I can work."
The words were spoken in a matter-of-fact tone, but Diane recoiled at them as at a sword-thrust.
"You can—what?"
It was the last touch, not only of the horror of the situation, but of its ludicrous irony.
"I can work, dear," Mrs. Eveleth repeated, with the poignant tranquillity that smote Diane more cruelly than grief. "There are many things I could do—"
"Oh, don't!" Diane wailed, with pleading gestures of the hands. "Oh, don't! I can't bear it. Don't say such things. They kill me. There must be some mistake. All that money can't have gone. Even if it was only a few hundred thousand francs, it would be something. I will not believe it. It's too soon to judge. I've heard it took a long time to settle up estates. How can they have done it yet?"
"They haven't. They've only seen its possibilities—and impossibilities."