“It’s not so bad as that. If it were, she shouldn’t be my friend for a day. You know that. But she’s with the enemy in the present case. It can’t be helped. I hope we shan’t quarrel. But if we must—why, we must, that’s all.”
Crowdie touched his picture, looked at it, then glanced at his wife and smiled.
“After all,” he said, “what does that sort of friendship amount to?”
“Well—perhaps you’re right,” she answered, and she smiled, too, as her eyes met his, and lingered a moment in the meeting. “I don’t know—perhaps it fills up the little empty places in life—when you’ve got a sister, for instance. Besides—I’m fond of Katharine. We’ve always been a good deal together. Not that I think she’s perfection either, you know. I don’t like the way she’s gone and installed herself with mamma, as though she didn’t know perfectly well that Ham was in love with her, and that she was making him miserable.”
“Ham will survive a considerable amount of that sort of misery. Still, it must be unpleasant, especially just now. After all, it’s her father who’s attacking you and your mother and brother. They can’t talk freely before her any more than you and I should.”
“No.” Hester paused a moment, and her face was thoughtful. “Walter,” she began again, presently, “I want to ask you a question.”
“Do you?” he asked, softly. “I have all the answers ready to all the possible questions you can ever ask of me. What is it?”
“Walter—weren’t you just a little tiny bit in love with Katharine, ever so long ago, before we were married? Tell me. I shan’t mind—that is, if it was very long ago.”
“In love with Katharine Lauderdale? No—never. That’s a very easy question to answer.”
He stood looking at her, and the hand which held the palette hung down by his side.