"I was. I was jealous—jealous of you. You're so young and beautiful—just what I was ten years ago, only better and prettier. You're what I can never be again—what I'd give the next ten years to be. Everything's over with me. I'm old—old!"
"You're not to say such things," cried Victoria, horrified. "You weren't jealous. You——"
"I was. I am now. But I want to confess. You must let me confess, if you're to help me."
"Dearest, tell me anything—everything you choose, but nothing you don't choose. And nothing you say can make me love you less—only more."
"There's a great deal to tell," Saidee said, heavily "And I'm tired—sick at heart. But I can't rest now, till I've told you."
"Wouldn't you come into bed?" pleaded Victoria humbly. "Then we could talk, the way we used to talk."
Saidee staggered up from her knees, and the girl almost lifted her on to the bed. Then she covered her with the thyme-scented linen sheet, and the silk coverlet under which she herself lay. For a moment they were quite still, Saidee lying with her head on Victoria's arm. But at last she said, in a whisper, as if her lips were dry: "Did you know I was sorry you'd come?"
"I knew you thought you were sorry," the girl answered. "Yet I hoped that you'd find out you weren't, really. I prayed for you to find out—soon."
"Did you guess why I was sorry?"
"Not—quite."