Chapter Sixteen.
What a May Day Saw.
“And are not afraid with any amazement.”
“He is rich,” said Judy for the twentieth time.
“And a clever business man. And he adores me. I do not see how you can think yourself justified in being so hard and unsympathetic about it, Deirdre. I am one of those extremely feminine women who must have some one to look after me. You can have no idea how wretched and lonely I am. It is all very well for you—so self-poised and full of character. Women like you don’t really know what it is to love and suffer. I don’t believe tall women feel things like little women either; and I am so tiny—Dick always said I was like a tiny sweet rosebud.”
“Oh, leave Dick out of it for God’s sake, Judy,” I groaned. “Content yourself with the words of Mr Courtfield now. Let poor Dick rest in his grave.”
“How brutal you are, Deirdre!” A moment afterwards she added vindictively, “It is really the best thing that could have happened for both of us. You and I could not have got on together much longer. And I can see you are beginning to set my boy against me too.”
“Oh, Judy!” I burst out passionately, but the moment after my anger and indignation evaporated, and I felt nothing but the dull aching pain that would never leave me now. What did it matter what unjust, cruel words she spoke? What did anything matter? I did not care. I did not care about anything, nor want anything. Ah, yes! There was one thing I wanted burningly, consumingly, terribly: to leave the pitiless brute of a country that had beaten and broken and robbed me, that had ground me to powder in its cruel maw.