"Let us tell each other everything—or no, say no word, I know everything and neither will I speak—but let us counsel—let us meditate together—Oh, mamma!"
Her form, usually erect and distinguished, bent, and trembled like a reed, and her lips, famous for irony and coldness, scattered a shower of kisses on the hands and face of her mother, whose chalky paleness was covered by a flame of blushes.
"Ira!" she exclaimed, "forgive. May God forgive me."
Unable to utter more than these words she dropped on her knees and touched the yellow cushion of the low sofa with her head. She seemed shattered, annihilated. Then Irene grew cold again. Sober thought and strong will shone in, her eyes. She bent over her mother, placed her delicate hand on her shoulder, and began almost with the movement of a guardian:
"Mamma, I beg you not to despair, and above all not to torture yourself with that which you consider a reproach and a sin. Never say to your children 'forgive,' for we cannot be your judges—I, least of all. You have ever been kind to us and as loving as an angel; we have lived with you; we love you—I most of all. Remember at all times that a loyal heart is near you and—a kindred one—for it is the heart of a daughter. You must stand erect, have will, think out something, frame something, have decision, save yourself."
Looking into her mother's face with a strange smile, she added:
"And save me, perhaps, for I, too, am a poor, unwise creature; I know not myself what to do."
Malvina raised her head, straightened herself, and rose from her knees slowly.
"True," whispered she. "You—you, so long and so earnestly have I wished to speak—of you—and had not the courage."
"Well, let us speak now," said Irene.