The widow fell back into her pillows with a sigh of relief.
"I mean I have deliberately tried to make her unhappy, and I have succeeded—and myself, too."
"That is not so bad then," and she settled a cushion. "Because unhappiness is only a thing for a time. You are crazy for the moon, and you can't get it, and you grieve and curse for a little, and then a new moon arises. What else?"
"Well, I want you to sympathize with me, and tell me what I had better do. Shall I go back to England to-morrow morning, or stay for the dinner-party?"
"You got as far, then, as telling each other you loved each other madly—and are both suffering from broken hearts, after one week's acquaintance."
"Don't be so brutal!" pleaded Hector.
And she noticed that his face looked haggard and changed. So her shrewd, kind eyes beamed upon him.
"Yes, I dare say it hurts; but having broken up your cake, you can't go on eating it. Why, in Heaven's name, did you let affairs get to a climax?"
"Because I am mad," said Hector, and he stretched out his arms. "I cannot tell you how much I love her. Haven't you seen for yourself what a darling she is? Every dear word she speaks shows her beautiful soul, and it all creeps right into my heart. I worship her as I might an angel, but I want her in my arms."
Mrs. McBride knew the English. They were not emotional or poseurs like some other nations, and Hector Bracondale was essentially a man of the world, and rather a whimsical cynic as well. So to see him thus moved must mean great things. She was guilty, too, for helping to create the situation. She must do what she could for him, she felt.