“Yes,” answered Charlotte, disconsolately. “I suppose it is. But if you knew the horrible sensation! It grows worse and worse—and the less I can find fault with him for other things, the worse it seems to grow. And it’s quite useless to fight. You know I’m good at fighting, don’t you? I used to think I was, until I tried to fight my husband. My dear—I’m not in it with him!”
Katharine rose and turned her back, feeling that she could hardly control herself if she sat still. There was an incredible frivolity about her sister at certain moments which was almost revolting to the young girl.
“What is it?” asked Charlotte, observing her movement.
“Oh—nothing,” answered Katharine. “The shade isn’t quite up and it’s growing dark, that’s all.”
“I thought you were angry,” said Mrs. Slayback.
“I? Why should I be angry? What business is it of mine?” Katharine turned and faced her, having adjusted the shade to her liking. “Of course, if you must say that sort of thing, you had better say it to me than to any one else. It doesn’t sound well in the world—and it’s not pleasant to hear.”
“Why not?” asked Charlotte, her voice growing hard and cold again. “But that’s a foolish question. Well—I’ve had my talk out—and I feel better. One must sometimes, you know.” Her tone softened again, unexpectedly. “Don’t be too hard on me, Kitty dear—just because you’re a better woman than I am.” There was a tremor in her last words.
Katharine did not understand. She understood, however, and for the first time in her life, that a frivolous woman can suffer quite as much as a serious one—which is a truth not generally recognized. She put her arm round her sister’s neck very gently, and pressed the fair head to her bosom, as she stood beside her.
“I’m not better than you, Charlie—I’m different, that’s all. Poor dear! Of course you suffer!”
“Dear!” And Charlotte rubbed her smooth cheek affectionately against the rough grey woollen of her sister’s frock.