“Yes.”
“And you and Mrs. Tregaskis understand one another now?”
“Yes,” said Rosamund simply and seriously. “Cousin Bertie is an extraordinarily brave person, isn’t she?”
“I think she is. And she’s a wonderfully understanding one, too. I’m glad, Rosamund. I couldn’t bear to think of you in an uncongenial atmosphere now.”
Rosamund, to whom it sometimes seemed that the understanding of Mrs. Tregaskis was hardest of all to bear, said nothing. The reticencies, the very reserves, which denoted Bertha’s penetration into the deepest joys and sorrows that Rosamund knew, lashed at her sensitiveness as no lesser sympathy or more shallow insight could ever have done.
Ludovic Argent, again an onlooker, slowly guessed at a little of it. He wondered whether Morris Severing, in love with Rosamund, would understand. He felt a curious certainty that on that understanding would depend her answer to the inevitable question.
But Rosamund’s answer, when Morris asked her to marry him, was in no way cryptic.
“I can’t, Morris. It’s out of the question. And, anyway, I shouldn’t be any good to you.”
“Dearest, you would be everything in the world. Tell me why....”
“For one thing, I don’t love you. No, Morris—I don’t. If I did—there wouldn’t be anything more to be said——”