“We must leave her alone to-day,” she said to Monica. “She won’t take any meal. Oh, the wretched state she is in! If only I could have known of this before!”
“Has it been going on for very long?”
“It began soon after she went to live at Mrs. Conisbee’s. She has told me all about it—poor girl, poor thing! Whether she can ever break herself of it, who knows? She says that she will take the pledge of total abstinence, and I encouraged her to do so; it may be some use, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps—I don’t know—”
“But I have no faith in her reforming unless she goes away from London. She thinks herself that only a new life in a new place will give her the strength. My dear, at Mrs. Conisbee’s she starved herself to have money to buy spirits; she went without any food but dry bread day after day.”
“Of course that made it worse. She must have craved for support.”
“Of course. And your husband knows about it. He came once when she was in that state—when you were away—”
Monica nodded sullenly, her eyes averted.
“Her life has been so dreadfully unhealthy. She seems to have become weak-minded. All her old interests have gone; she reads nothing but novels, day after day.”
“I have noticed that.”