And then into that day of queer and crowded horrible happenings, there was packed yet another.
In my own ears I heard my own voice answering his mother’s appeal with words I could scarcely recognize as my own. Yet it was no freak of imagination this time. It was no mad fancy like that on the beach. It was I, Monica Trant, who in that voice so shaking and strained cried desperately:
“Oh, yes! Yes! You know I care for him!”
And with that avowal in my ears I felt as if some stranger had cried aloud a secret that I had never even guessed, but that now—now I knew to be coming true.
I found myself putting out my hands before me, almost as if this growing knowledge were something that I could hold away from myself. For a time I must hold it away; I must! For at least as long as I remained here. I clenched my hands tightly, dropping them to my sides, using all my will to bring myself to speak in my usual voice again.
“Will you tell me what time it is, Mrs. Waters?”
“Half-past seven. You’ll go to bed early, dear, won’t you? You won’t stop up!”
“No, I’ll go to bed.”
“And to-morrow—Nancy, I don’t want to say much more. Only, Life promises to be so golden, dear, for you and him!”
It was then that she gave me a sting that I wish I could forget. I shall forget, but not at once, that his mother said: