Rosamond sank down on the settee. During Mabel’s words she had been moved increasingly; her heart echoing that the words were true—tragic, but true.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “One must love somebody. Oh, yes, Mabel.” Tears welled over her own lids.
“It’s all over, now,” Mabel sobbed. “Even if you don’t take Wilton. It’s hopeless.”
Rosamond’s lips quivered.
“Oh, it’s very sad to be just a lonely woman in this dreadful little place. And to be young—young! Oh, Mabel, dear!”
“Yes. Yes. Oh, Rosamond!”
“Love only comes in at the window and—and—kisses you—once—and flies away again.”
“Flies away again,” Mabel echoed. They found, first each other’s hands, then each other’s arms, and finally grieved upon each other’s bosoms contentedly.
“He’ll never forgive me for telling,” Mabel said. “Oh, Rosamond, you—you—don’t want to marry him, do you? Perhaps I ought to try to give him up?”
Mrs. Mearely’s injured pride leaped again into wrathy flames.