She wasn’t jealous; that had worn off on that first evening of Vincent’s home-coming. It had hurt her dreadfully, then, to see his glance turn always away from her and toward this younger and lovelier face; but now she didn’t care whether he was infatuated with Angelica or any one else. She was pleased simply to be on friendly terms with him, to have him agreeable instead of contemptuous, and she knew that was the best she could expect.
She had not the slightest hope of winning him back; she didn’t even want to very much. She was so tired; she dreaded the necessity which love brings for effort—for keeping up, in appearances, in spirits. She preferred that Vincent should never look at her at all, rather than to have to endure his old critical glance. She was only too conscious of her sad decline.
So there was nothing in her heart but real regret that Angelica was going. She liked her very much, and was used to her.
"I’m very sorry to lose you," she said. "I’d hoped you were quite settled here. I’ll miss you more than I can say."
"You’ve been very nice to me," said Angelica.
"And you must always remember me as a friend. If there is ever anything that I can do for you, come to me. I mean it!"
She held out her hand, and Angelica gripped it.
"Good-by!" said Polly again. "And good luck! I hope you’ll let me know how you get on."
"Yes, I will. But listen, Mrs. Geraldine—can I have my money?"
"Certainly! You’ll have to get it from Mr. Geraldine, though. He’s in the library, writing."