mrs. farrant. Fanny . . will it leave you so very lonely?
frances. Yes . . lonelier than you can ever be. You have children. I'm just beginning to realise. . .
mrs. farrant. [Leading her from the mere selfishness of sorrow.] There's loneliness of the spirit, too.
frances. Ah, but once you've tasted the common joys of life . . once you've proved all your rights as a man or woman . . .
mrs. farrant. Then there are subtler things to miss. As well be alone like you, or dead like him, without them . . I sometimes think.
frances. [Responsive, lifted from egoism, reading her friend's mind.] You demand much.
mrs. farrant. I wish that he had demanded much of any woman.
frances. You know how this misery began? That poor little wretch . . she's lying dead too. They're both dead together now. Do you think they've met . . ?
julia grips both her hands and speaks very steadily to help her friend back to self control.
mrs. farrant. George told me as soon as he was told. I tried to make him understand my opinion, but he thought I was only shocked.