“Meg, may I tell you something? I like Henry.”
“You’d be odd if you didn’t,” said Margaret.
“I usen’t to.”
“Usen’t!” She lowered her eyes a moment to the black abyss of the past. They had crossed it, always excepting Leonard and Charles. They were building up a new life, obscure, yet gilded with tranquillity. Leonard was dead; Charles had two years more in prison. One usen’t always to see clearly before that time. It was different now.
“I like Henry because he does worry.”
“And he likes you because you don’t.”
Helen sighed. She seemed humiliated, and buried her face in her hands. After a time she said: “Above love,” a transition less abrupt than it appeared.
Margaret never stopped working.
“I mean a woman’s love for a man. I supposed I should hang my life on to that once, and was driven up and down and about as if something was worrying through me. But everything is peaceful now; I seem cured. That Herr Förstmeister, whom Frieda keeps writing about, must be a noble character, but he doesn’t see that I shall never marry him or anyone. It isn’t shame or mistrust of myself. I simply couldn’t. I’m ended. I used to be so dreamy about a man’s love as a girl, and think that for good or evil love must be the great thing. But it hasn’t been; it has been itself a dream. Do you agree?”
“I do not agree. I do not.”