The tears came to Del's eyes and the high color to her cheeks. "You needn't make excuses," she cried. "It's the truth. I don't care—in that way."
A silence; then Madelene, gently: "Was this what you came to tell me?"
Adelaide nodded slowly. "Yes, though I didn't know it."
"Why tell me?"
"Because I think I care for another man." Adelaide was not looking away. On the contrary, as she spoke, saying the words in an even, reflective tone, she returned her sister-in-law's gaze fully, frankly. "And I don't know what to do. It's very complicated—doubly complicated."
"The one you were first engaged to?"
"Yes," said Del. "Isn't it pitiful in me?" And there was real self-contempt in her voice and in her expression. "I assumed that I despised him because he was selfish and calculating, and such a snob! Now I find I don't mind his selfishness, and that I, too, am a snob." She smiled drearily. "I suppose you feel the proper degree of contempt and aversion."
"We are all snobs," answered Madelene tranquilly. "It's one of the deepest dyes of the dirt we came from, the hardest to wash out."
"Besides," pursued Adelaide, "he and I have both learned by experience—which has come too late; it always does."
"Not at all," said Madelene briskly. "Experience is never too late. It's always invaluably useful in some way, no matter when it comes."