“This is all I wanted,” exclaimed Brigit; “that we should understand each other and stand close by each other. I am not on the edge of a precipice—I am at the bottom of it already!” Her eyes had grown calm from the mere force of sadness. “You mustn't ask me to look back,” she added: “you mustn't ask me to choose again. A simple, quiet life is out of the question now. I have to learn how to forget.”
She moved to the door, kissed her hand to Pensée, and bowed prettily to Sara.
“I must get back to my work,” she said, and so left them. The two women turned toward each other.
“There is no hope for Orange,” observed Sara drily: “no man would ever forget her.”
“He needn't forget her, but——“
“Yes, it would have to be sheer, absolute forgetfulness. I like her. I like all beautiful things—pictures, statues, bronzes, porcelains, and white marble visions! She is a white marble vision. And Orange will love her forever and ever and ever. And when she is dead, he will love her still more!”
She threw back her head and laughed—till Pensée laughed also. Then they wished each other goodbye, and parted.