Although no word was spoken, Lydia suddenly screamed out as though she had been stabbed. “NO! Not that!” she cried.
“Yes, yes, my poor darling!” said the other.
Lydia turned slowly around. “Then it is too late. We never can do better,” she said.
Miss Burgess tried helplessly to unburden her kind heart of its aching sympathy. “You spoke of a little disagreement, but, oh, my dear, don’t let that be the last thought. Think of the years of perfect love and knowledge you had together.”
“We never knew each other,” said Lydia. Her voice did not tremble.
“Oh, don’t! don’t!” pleaded Miss Burgess, alarmed. “You mustn’t let it unhinge you so! Such a perfect marriage!”
“We were never married,” said Lydia. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.
“Oh, help! Someone!” called the poor reporter. “Somebody come quick.”
Lydia opened her eyes. She spoke still in a low, steady voice, but in it now was a shocking quality from which the other shrank back terrified. “I could have loved him!” she said.
“Quick—’Stashie—hurry—keep the baby out of the room! Your mistress has fainted!”