"It would always be May-time," she went on, "and we'd have nothing to do but gather posies in the sunshine. We'd laugh and sing, and there'd be no care and no worries. Did you ever think of love that way?"
"Yes."
The girl spoke more slowly now, as if anxious to be quite accurate:—
"But Peter seemed to think of other things. When we talked of you it was as if he wanted you to be a part of himself and help with the big things he was planning to do. He had so many wonderful plans in which you were to help. Instead of running away from cares and worries, it was as though meeting these was what was going to make it May-time. Instead of riding off to some fairy kingdom, he seemed to feel that it was this that would make a fairy kingdom even of New York. Because"—she lowered her voice—"it was of a home and of children he talked, and of what a fine mother you would make. He talked of that—and somehow, Marjory, it made me proud just to be a woman! Oh, perhaps I should n't repeat such things!"
Marjory sprang to her feet.
"You should n't repeat them!" she exclaimed. "You mustn't repeat anything more! And I must n't listen!"
"It is only because you're the woman I came to know so well, sitting by his bed in the dark, that I dared," she said gently.
"You'll go now?" pleaded Marjory. "I must n't listen to any more."
Silently, as if frightened by what she had already said, Beatrice moved toward the door.
Marjory hurried after her.