"Ma," he announced, as the little old lady in her neat widow's cap looked up in surprise—he spoke with emphasis, as he was still suffering sharply from having had, as it were, to denounce Garda—"I am convinced, Ma, that it would have been infinitely better for you, infinitely, if you had married again."
"Mercy on us, Reginald!" said astonished little Ma.
Margaret entered Garda's room with a noiseless step, the Moores had thought it better that she should go alone. The blinds had been closed, but a gleam of the sunset entered between the slats, and made a line of gold across the floor; the motionless figure on the lounge had been covered (by Penelope) with that most desolate of all draperies, a plain black shawl. Though Margaret had entered so quietly, Garda seemed to know who it was; she was lying with her face turned away, but she spoke instantly—"Margaret?" And Margaret came and took her in her arms.
"Margaret, I cannot bear it," Garda said, calmly; "I have tried, but it is impossible. And if you cannot tell me how to—you the only one I really believe, I shall not try any more. It is decided."
"Time will tell you how, Garda," Margaret answered, putting her hand upon the girl's head as it lay against her breast. "Time, I think, is the only thing that can help us—women, I mean—when we suffer so."
"But it's nineteen months already," Garda went on, in the same desperately calm tone. "And to-day I've suffered just as much as I did in the beginning—exactly as much."
"Yes—the coming home. It will be different now."
"But now's now," said Garda, sitting up, and looking at her friend, her face hardened, her lovely lips set in her pain.
"I mean soon, dear."
"I won't believe it unless you swear it to me," Garda went on. She got up and stood looking at Margaret. "If you will swear it to me I will try to believe it, because you know me, and you speak the truth."