“That will do,” he answered. “I don’t want you to say it again. Once is enough.”
“Monica,” said Beatrice in the softest of whispers as she came into the quiet room where her brother lay asleep upon the sofa, and Monica sat dreaming beside the fire. “Ah, Monica, Monica!” and then she stopped short, kneeling down, and turning her quivering face and swimming eyes towards the face bent tenderly over her.
Somehow it was never needful to say much to Monica. She always understood without many words. She bent her head now, and kissed Beatrice.
“Is it so, then, dear?” she asked.
“Did you know?”
“I knew what you told me yourself, and I could see for myself that he had not forgotten any more than you.”
“I did not see it.”
“Possibly not—neither did he; but sometimes love is very blind—and very wilful too.”
Was there a touch of tender reproach in the tone? Beatrice looked at her earnestly.