She was not visibly perturbed. Rather, she was pensive, sitting with an elbow resting on the arm of her chair, the hand raised so as to lay a forefinger on her cheek. "Don't you think that we often make news good or bad by our way of taking it?"
"That's asking me a question, when you've got information to give me. What have you to tell me, Miss Bland?"
"I've something to tell you that will give you a great shock; so that I don't want to say it till I know you're prepared."
"Oh, prepared! Is one ever prepared? For God's sake, Miss Bland, what is it? Is one of the children hurt? Is one of them dead?"
"That would be a great grief. I said that this would be a great shock. There's a difference—and one can be prepared."
"Well, I am. Please don't keep me in suspense. Do tell me."
She sat now with hands folded in her lap, looking at him quietly. "No, you're not prepared."
"Tell me what to do and I'll do it," he said, nervously, "only don't torture me."
"One is prepared," she said, tranquilly, "by remembering beforehand one's own strength—by knowing that there's nothing one can't bear, and bear nobly."
"All right; all right; I'll do that. Now please go on."