“It would be better for you both. Your sister is not looking well. Indeed I was shocked by the change in her.”
“Really? Poor child! It is not gay for her. I am very poor company. You thought she was changed, then?”
“Very much,” George answered, thoughtfully.
“And it is a long time since you have seen her. Poor Constance! It will end in my going away for her sake rather than my own. I wonder what would be best for her, after all.”
“A journey—a change of some sort,” George suggested. He found it very hard to talk with the heartbroken young widow, though he could not help admiring her, and wondering how long it would be before she took another husband.
“No,” Grace answered. “That is not all. She is unsettled, uncertain in all she does. If she goes on in this way she will turn into one of those morbid, introspective women who do nothing but imagine that they have committed great sins and are never satisfied with their own repentance.”
“She is too sensible for that——”
“No, she is not sensible, where her conscience is concerned. I wish some one would come and take her out of herself—some one strong, enthusiastic, who would shake her mind and heart free of all this nonsense.”
“In other words,” said George with a smile, “you wish that your sister would marry.”
“Yes, if she would marry the right man—a man like you.”