For she still maintained to herself that she loved Nicholas.
That which perplexed her perhaps most was her own increasing tendency to dwell upon a recollection that for several years now had been almost altogether obscured——Vonnie.
The memory of her childish championship of Vonnie, the sick despair of knowing herself to be better loved and cared for than was Vonnie, the pain that she had suffered through Vonnie's pain—all recurred to her with an odd sense of contrast.
How could one compare the two? The kindly derision of common-sense sounded in her imagination, insensibly clothing itself in the accents of that embodiment of common-sense, Monica Melody. "Childie, childie, think what you're saying. Why, how can you compare the two, Lily? The affection of a little child for another little child, and the love of a woman for her husband! Oh Lily, Lily!"
Miss Melody would certainly conclude with mellow, tolerant laughter.
And yet the comparison existed, and remained insistent.
She would never suffer for Nicholas as she had suffered for Vonnie.
"Perhaps I am better balanced now," Lily wistfully suggested to herself, but the suggestion carried no conviction.
She found the phrase that elucidated the question for her almost by chance:
To the limit of capacity.