“Sometimes”—Lynda pressed against Betty—“sometimes, lately, in Con’s eyes I have seen the look! It was as if he were asking me whether he had yet been punished enough! And I’ve been thinking of myself—thinking what Con owed me; what I wanted; when I should have it! I hate and despise myself for my littleness and prudery; why, he’s a thousand times finer than I! That’s what pedestals have done for women. But now, Betty, I’m down; and I’m down to stay. I’m—”
“Wait, Lyn, dear.” Betty mopped her wet face and started up. She had seen a tall form pass the window, and she felt as if something tremendous were at stake. “Just a minute, Lyn. I must speak to Mrs. Waters if you are to stay over night. She’s old, you know, and goes early to bed.”
Lynda still sat on the floor—her face turned to the red glow of the fire that was growing duller and duller. Presently the door opened, and her words flowed on as if there had been no interruption.
“I’m going to Con to-morrow. I had to make sure—first; but I know now, I know! I’m going to tell him all about it—and ask him to let me walk beside him. I’m going to tell him how lonely I’ve been in the place he put me—how I’ve hated it! And some time—I feel as sure as sure can be—there will be something I can do that will prove it.”
“My—darling!”
Arms stronger than Betty’s held her close—held her with a very human, understanding strength.
“You’ve done the one big thing, Lyn!”
“Not yet, not yet, Con, dear.”
“You have made me realize what a wrong—a bitter wrong—I did you, when I thought you could be less than a loving woman.”
“Oh, Con! And have you been lonely, too?”