“She has altered very much,” he went on bluntly. Then, after a moment: “I felt—sorry for her.”
“You did, Dan?” Gillian’s face lit up. “I’m glad. I’ve always hated your being so down on her.”
With an abrupt movement he jabbed the glowing stub of his cigarette on to an ash-tray, pressing it down until it went out. Then, taking out his case, he lit another before replying.
“I shan’t be ‘down on her’ any more,” he said at last. “I never guessed she’d felt things—like that.”
“No. No one did. I don’t suppose even Magda herself knew she could ever go through all she has done just for an ideal.”
Then very quietly, very simply and touchingly, she told him the story of all that had happened, of Magda’s final intention of becoming a working member of the sisterhood, and of Lady Arabella’s letter summoning Michael back to England.
“But even when he comes,” added Gillian, “unless he is very careful—unless he loves her in the biggest way a man can love, so that nothing else matters, he’ll lose her. He’ll have to convince her that she means just that to him.”
Storran was silent for a long time, and when at last he spoke it was with an obvious effort.
“Listen,” he said. “There’s something you don’t know. Perhaps when I’ve told you, you won’t have anything more to say to me—I don’t know.”
Gillian opened her lips in quick disclaimer, but he motioned her to be silent.