“She’ll help me to—she’s to see him, of course, before she goes. She starts immediately, by the way, with Adelaide Painter, who is motoring over to Francheuil to catch the one o’clock express—and who, of course, knows nothing of all this, and is simply to be told that Sophy has been sent for by the Farlows.”
Darrow mutely signed his comprehension, and she went on: “Owen is particularly anxious that neither Adelaide nor his grandmother should have the least inkling of what’s happened. The need of shielding Sophy will help him to control himself. He’s coming to his senses, poor boy; he’s ashamed of his wild talk already. He asked me to tell you so; no doubt he’ll tell you so himself.”
Darrow made a movement of protest. “Oh, as to that—the thing’s not worth another word.”
“Or another thought, either?” She brightened. “Promise me you won’t even think of it—promise me you won’t be hard on him!”
He was finding it easier to smile back at her. “Why should you think it necessary to ask my indulgence for Owen?”
She hesitated a moment, her eyes wandering from him. Then they came back with a smile. “Perhaps because I need it for myself.”
“For yourself?”
“I mean, because I understand better how one can torture one’s self over unrealities.”
As Darrow listened, the tension of his nerves began to relax. Her gaze, so grave and yet so sweet, was like a deep pool into which he could plunge and hide himself from the hard glare of his misery. As this ecstatic sense enveloped him he found it more and more difficult to follow her words and to frame an answer; but what did anything matter, except that her voice should go on, and the syllables fall like soft touches on his tortured brain?
“Don’t you know,” she continued, “the bliss of waking from a bad dream in one’s own quiet room, and going slowly over all the horror without being afraid of it any more? That’s what I’m doing now. And that’s why I understand Owen...” She broke off, and he felt her touch on his arm. “Because I’d dreamed the horror too!”