“I think there was a year or two difference,” said Grant quietly.
“Yes, but your gallantry keeps you from telling the truth; which is that the women, in cases of this kind, are much older and more experienced.”
“Are they? Well, perhaps she is, NOW. She is dead.”
Mrs. Ashwood walked her horse. “Poor thing,” she said. Then a sudden idea took possession of her and brought a film to her eyes. “How long ago?” she asked in a low voice.
“About six or seven months, I think. I believe there was a baby who died too.”
She continued to walk her horse slowly, stroking its curved neck. “I think it's perfectly shameful!” she said suddenly.
“Not so bad as that, Mrs. Ashwood, surely. The girl may have loved him—and he”—
“You know perfectly what I mean, Mr. Grant. I speak of the conduct of the mother and father and those two sisters!”
Grant slightly elevated his eyebrows. “But you forget, Mrs. Ashwood. It was young Harcourt and his wife's own act. They preferred to take their own path and keep it.”
“I think,” said Mrs. Ashwood authoritatively, “that the idea of leaving those two unfortunate children to suffer and struggle on alone—out there—on the sand hills of San Francisco—was simply disgraceful!”