“
It’s terrible, Maurice! If only I could have a line, even a wire, from her, or her father, just to say she was alive, I wouldn’t mind so much.”
“She may have written and the letter got lost in transit,” I suggested.
“Then why didn’t she write again, or wire?” persisted Mary. “And there are her clothes; why, she hadn’t even a second gown with her. I believe she’s dead, Maurice; I do indeed!”
She began to cry softly, poor, dear little woman, and I did not know what to say to comfort her. I dare not give her the slightest hint as to what had befallen Anne, or of my own agony of mind concerning her; for that would only have added to her distress. And I knew now why it was imperative that she should be spared any extra worry, and, if possible, be reassured about her friend.
“Nonsense!” I exclaimed. “You’d have heard soon enough if anything had happened to her. And the clothes prove nothing; her father’s a wealthy man, and, when she found the things didn’t arrive, she’d just buy more. Depend upon it, her father went to meet her when he left the hotel at Berlin, and they’re jaunting off on their travels together all right.”
“I don’t believe it!” she cried stormily. “Anne would have written to me again and again, rather than let me endure this suspense. And if one letter went astray it’s impossible that they all should. But you—I can’t understand you, Maurice! You’re as unsympathetic as Jim, and yet—I thought—I was sure—you loved her!”
This was almost more than I could stand.
“God knows I do love her!” I said as steadily as I could. “She will always be the one woman in the world for me, Mary, even if I never see or hear of her again. But I’m not going to encourage you in all this futile worry, nor is Jim. He’s not unsympathetic, really, but he knows how bad it is for you, as you ought to know, too. Anne’s your friend, and you love her dearly—but—remember, you’re Jim’s wife, and more precious to him than all the world.”
She flushed hotly at that; I saw it, though I was careful not to look directly at her.