She went upstairs with her guest to her room at length, when Beatrice suddenly turned towards her, with quite a new expression upon her face.
“Monica,” she said, looking straight into her eyes, “you are changed—you are different from what you were in London—different even from what you were in Scotland, though I saw a change then. I don’t know how to express it, but you are beautified—glorified. What is it? What has changed you since I first knew you?”
Monica knew right well; but some feelings could not be translated into words.
“I am very happy,” she said, quietly. “If there is any change, that must be the cause.”
“Happier than you have ever been before?”
“Yes; I think every week makes me happier. I learn to know my husband better and better, you see.”
A sudden wistful sadness flashed into the eyes so steadily regarding her. Monica saw it before it had been blotted out by the arch drollery of the look that immediately succeeded.
“And it does not wear off, Monica? Sometimes it does, you know—after a time. Will it ever, in your case, do you think?”
“I think not,” she answered.