“Constance is gone out,” Grace began. “I am sure she will be sorry. It is kind of you to come so soon.”
“You are no better,” George answered, looking at her, and not heeding her remark. “I had hoped that you might be, but your expression is the same. Why do you not go abroad, and make some great change in your life?”
“I am very well,” Grace replied with a faint smile which only increased the sadness of her look. “I do not care to go away. Why should I? It could make no difference.”
“But it would. It would make all the difference in the world. Your sorrow is in everything, in all you see, in all you hear, in every familiar impression of your life—even in me and the sight of me.”
“You are mistaken. It is here.” She pressed her hand to her breast with a gesture almost fierce, and fixed her deep brown eyes on George’s face for an instant. Then she let her arm fall beside her and looked away. “The worst of it is that I am so strong,” she added presently. “I shall never break down. I shall live to be an old woman.”
“Yes,” George answered, thoughtfully, “I believe that you will. I can understand that. I fancy that you and I are somewhat alike. There are people who are unhappy, and who fade away and go out like a lamp without oil. They are said to die of broken hearts though they have not felt half as much happiness or sorrow as some tougher man and woman who live through a lifetime of despair and disappointment.”
“Are you very happy?” Grace asked rather suddenly.
“Yes, I am very happy. I suppose I have reason to be. Everything has gone well with me of late. I have had plenty of success with what I have done, I am engaged to be married——”
“That is what I mean,” said Grace, interrupting him. “Are you happy in that? I suppose I have no right to ask such a question, but I cannot help asking it. You ought to be, for you two are very well matched. Do you know? It is a very fortunate thing that Constance refused you. You did not really love her any more than she loved you.”
“What makes you say that?”