"Any change?"
"None. I'm beginning to be afraid there never will be."
"Poor Anne!" Meredith said, scarcely above a breath.
Tristram came over to the table and sat down on the edge. He lit his pipe, and Meredith, alert now for every guiding sign, saw that the hand with the match shook.
"Why 'poor Anne'? It's been ghastly, of course—but then, what was her life like before? At least, there's no one to cow the spirit out of her. She's free."
"You don't understand Anne. I've known her so long. Perhaps, as a clergyman, I had a deeper insight into her mind. Boucicault terrified her, but she loved him. It seems odd, doesn't it, but at the bottom he was a kind of hero to her. She thought of him as he once was—Tiger Sahib—a daring, handsome leader of men. That's what's uppermost in her now. Everything else is forgotten and forgiven. So you can see for yourself what she is suffering. It's the pitiableness of the man's utter helplessness in the face of her mother's amazing attitude——"
Tristram swung himself off the table and began to pace the room with long, impatient strides. Meredith watched him unceasingly.
"I approve of Mrs. Boucicault's attitude," Tristram said, in angry challenge.
"A great many people do. They think she's well rid of a ruffian. But, as I've told you, Anne loved him. She has a rare and wonderful spirit, Tristram, and she has forgiven. Her mother's flaunted happiness and frivolity were unbearable. She fled from it, and now she's longing for her father. She hasn't a penny of her own. It's a ghastly situation. The devil who did for Boucicault did for Anne."
Tristram stopped short. He was staring down at his pipe, which had gone out.