“It lasts—with Justin,” said Laura. And then—“Gran’papa—Justin is angry with me. We are not engaged any more.”
“It was my fault, I do believe,” said Gran’papa to the fire.
“Oh, it was my fault,” said Laura. “I think I was mad.”
She sat silent. Her thoughts were a bitter sea. Its winds and waves tossed her hither and thither.
Her words came again mechanically, as if she did not know that she was speaking, like a child learning lessons it its sleep.
“If I could only tell him! If I could only make him see! I mayn’t even write to him. He’s fighting. Any minute may kill him. Mrs. Cloud and Rhoda and Lucy—they all write to him. And I mayn’t.”
“Anne wrote to me,” said Gran’papa.
“He’d sneer. He’d tear it up. He’d say ‘What’s up now? She might have the decency to leave me alone.’ Can’t you hear him saying it? He doesn’t want me. Why should he, for that matter?” Her fingers locked and relaxed and interlocked again. “If I could only make him understand,” said Laura. “If he dies——”
“Anne died,” said Gran’papa.
“Gran’papa,” Laura touched his sleeve, “it’s such misery.”