“By what you would do for a person.”
“Ah, well, I think I have stood that test.”
Henrietta leaned over the table, and a candle flame, as though startled by her gesture, gave a leap, and the shadows behind were stirred.
“Yes,” Henrietta said, “I hated you for a long time, but now I don’t. You’ve been unhappy, too. And you were right about—that man. I didn’t love him. How could I? How could I? How could anybody? If you hadn’t come that day—”
Rose closed her eyes for a moment and then said wearily, “It wouldn’t have made any difference. I never made any difference. You didn’t love him; but he never loved you either, child. You were quite safe.”
Henrietta’s face flushed hotly. This might be true, but it was not for Aunt Rose to say it. Once more she leaned across the table and said clearly, “Then you’re still jealous.”
Rose smiled. It seemed impossible to move her. “No, Henrietta. I left jealousy behind years ago. We won’t discuss this any further. It doesn’t bear discussion. It’s beyond it.”
“I know it’s very unpleasant,” Henrietta said politely, “but if we are to go on living together, we ought to clear things up.”
“We are not going on living together,” Rose said. She left the table and stood before the fire, one hand on the mantelshelf and one foot on the fender. The long, soft lines of her dark dress were merged into the shadows, and the white arm, the white face and neck seemed to be disembodied. Henrietta, struck dumb by that announcement, and feeling the situation wrested from the control of her young hands, stared at the slight figure which had typified beauty for her since she first saw it.
“Then you don’t like me,” she faltered.