"Most people do. Someone was saying to me the other day—I forget who—Mr. Abinger, perhaps—that Cinthie looks like the incarnation of all the deviltries Clem and Bill have left undone, all the wickedness they have kept under."
"Mr. Abinger is a better judge of deviltries than of good women," said Poppy drily.
"He is a rip, of course. But, then, rips always unerringly recognise other rips," smiled Mary Capron, and Poppy smiled too, though she was not extremely amused.
"Are you accusing Clem of being a rip?"
"Of course not, though Bill is so charming he must have been one some time, don't you think?"
"I think he is nearly nice enough to be Clem's husband," said Poppy curtly, "and too entirely nice for any other woman." It was an old suspicion of hers that Mary Capron was not as real as she pretended to be in her friendship for Clem.
"You are a very loyal friend, Miss Chard; and I hope you don't think that I am not, just because I find it intensely interesting to talk about the people I care for?" Mrs. Capron spoke with a quiet sincerity that made Poppy feel ashamed of her thought, for, of course, most women do find it interesting to talk of people they care for. The best of friends do it. After all, Mrs. Capron had said nothing that a friend might not lightly say.
"I would never talk about her to anyone but you," continued Mrs. Capron, "and I know that you love her as much as I do. But I see that you think I am wrong."
"I think, Mrs. Capron, that one would be a stock or a stone to know Clem, and yet not be intensely interested in her husband, her child, and everything that concerns her," Poppy answered warmly. "I could sit all day and watch her face, wondering how she came to know so much about life without being old, or bitter, or uncharitable about anything in the world."
"She will tell you that the deep lines she has on her face are only little mementos of Africa—that Africa always puts her marks on the faces of those who love her. But"—Mary Capron's voice was very gentle and sad—"I happen to know that she has been pounded in the mortar."