“She thinks you and she might at any rate have been friends.”
“We might certainly. That’s just”—he continued to laugh—“why I’m going.”
It was as if Maria could feel with this then at last that she had done her best for each. But she had still an idea. “Shall I tell her that?”
“No. Tell her nothing.”
“Very well then.” To which in the next breath Miss Gostrey added: “Poor dear thing!”
Her friend wondered; then with raised eyebrows: “Me?”
“Oh no. Marie de Vionnet.”
He accepted the correction, but he wondered still. “Are you so sorry for her as that?”
It made her think a moment—made her even speak with a smile. But she didn’t really retract. “I’m sorry for us all!”