Mrs. Falchion looked closely at Justine, and, after a moment, evidently satisfied, said: “What do you know of love?”
Justine tried hard for composure, and answered gently: “I loved my brother Hector.”
“And did it make you just and merciful and—an angel?”
“Madame, you could answer that better. But it has not made me be at war; it has made me patient.”
“Your love—for your brother—has made you that?” Again she looked keenly, but Justine now showed nothing but earnestness.
“Yes, madame.”
Mrs. Falchion paused for a moment, and seemed intent on the beauty of the pine-belted hills, capped by snowy peaks, and wrapped in a most hearty yet delicate colour. The red of her parasol threw a warm soft ness upon her face. She spoke now without looking at Justine.
“Justine, did you ever love any one besides your brother?—I mean another man.”
Justine was silent for a moment, and then she said: “Yes, once.” She was looking at the hills now, and Mrs. Falchion at her.
“And you were happy?” Here Mrs. Falchion abstractedly toyed with a piece of lace on Justine’s arm. Such acts were unusual with her.