“No,” answered Agatha reflectively, “since you have compelled me to say it, I don’t think now that I ever was really fond of him, though I don’t know how I can make that quite clear to you. It was only after I came out here that I—realized—Gregory. It was not the actual man I fell in love with in England.”
Sally turned her face away, for Agatha had made her meaning perfectly plain. Somewhat to Sally’s astonishment, she showed no sign of resentment.
“Then,” Sally responded, “it is way better that you didn’t marry him.” She paused, and seemed to search for words with which to express herself. “I knew all along all there was to know about Gregory—except that he was going to marry you, and it was some time before I heard that—and I was ready to take him. I was fond of him.”
Agatha’s heart went out to her. “Yes,” she said simply, “it is a very good thing that I let him go.” She smiled. “That, however, doesn’t quite describe it, Sally.”
Gregory’s fiancée flushed. “I couldn’t have said that, but you don’t quite understand yet. I said I knew all there was to know about him—and you never did. You made too much of him in England, and when you came out here you only saw the things you didn’t like in him. Still, they weren’t the only ones.”
Agatha started at this statement, for she realized that part of it was certainly true, and she could admit the possibility of all of it being a fact. Gregory might possess a few good qualities that she had never discovered!
“Perhaps I did,” she admitted. “I don’t think it matters now.”
“They’re all of them mixed,” persisted Sally. “One can’t expect too much, but you can bear with a great deal when you’re fond of any one.”
Agatha sat silent a while, for she was troubled by a certain sense of wholesome confusion. It seemed to her that Sally had the clearer vision. Love had given her discernment as well as charity, and, not expecting perfection, it was the man’s strong points upon which she fixed her eyes.
“Yes,” she replied presently. “I am glad you look at it that way, Sally.”