"That's what I mean. There's really no place for people who've made bad mistakes—anywhere."
"If you mean yourself, Alex, dear, you know there's always a place for you here. Just as long as you're happy with us. Only I'm sometimes afraid that it's not quite the sort of life—after all you've been through, you poor dear. I know people do come in and out a good deal—and it will be worse than ever when Pam is at home."
"Violet, you're very good to me. You're the only person who has seemed at all to understand."
"My dear, I do understand. Really, I think I do. It's just as you say—you made a mistake when you were very young—much too young to be allowed to take such a step, in my opinion—and you're suffering the most bitter consequences. But no one in their senses could blame you, either for going into that wretched place, or—still less—for coming out of it."
"One is always blamed by some one, I think, for every mistake. People would rather forgive one for murder, than for making a fool of oneself."
"Forgiveness," said Violet thoughtfully. "It's rather an overrated virtue, in my opinion. I don't think it ought to be very hard to forgive any one one loved, anything."
"Would you forgive anything, Violet?"
"I think so," said Violet, looking rather surprised. "Unless I were deliberately deceived by some one whom I trusted. That's different. Of course, one might perhaps forgive even then in a way—but it wouldn't be the same thing again, ever."
"No," said Alex. "No, of course not. Every one feels the same about deceit."
In the depths of her own consciousness, Alex was groping dimly after some other standard—some elusive certainty, that continually evaded her. Were not those things which were hardest to forgive, the most in need of forgiveness?