“To tell you the truth, Penelope,” she said, “I almost wish that he were not quite so devotedly attached to his country.”
Penelope was silent. They had reached Lady Grace’s room now, and were standing together on the hearthrug in front of the fire.
“I am afraid he is like that,” Penelope said gently. “He seems to have none of the ordinary weaknesses of men. I, too, wish sometimes that he were a little different. One would like to think of him, for his own sake, as being happy some day. He reminds me somehow of the men who build and build, toiling always through youth unto old age. There seems no limit to their strength, nor any respite. They build a palace which those who come after them must inhabit.”
Once more Lady Grace sighed. She was looking into the heart of the fire. Penelope took her hands.
“It is hard sometimes, dear,” she said, “to realize that a thing is impossible, that it is absolutely out of our reach. Yet it is better to bring one’s mind to it than to suffer all the days.”
Lady Grace looked up. At that moment she was more than pretty. Her eyes were soft and bright, the color had flooded her cheeks.
“But I don’t see why it should be impossible, Penelope,” she protested. “We are equals in every way. Alliances between our two countries are greatly to be desired. I have heard my father say so, and Mr. Haviland. The trouble is, Pen,” she added with trembling lips, “that he does not care for me.”
“You cannot tell,” Penelope answered. “He has never shown any signs of caring for any woman. Remember, though, that he would want you to live in Japan.”
“I’d live in Thibet if he asked me to,” Lady Grace declared, raising her handkerchief to her eyes, “but he never will. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t understand. I am very foolish, Penelope.”
Penelope kissed her gently.