"It seems horrible to feel glad over anyone's death, but I simply can't help it," went on Kitty. "Peter has just telegraphed me that Celia died yesterday. . . . Oh, Nan, dearest! I'm so glad for you—so glad for you and Peter!"
Nan, who had risen at Kitty's entrance, swayed suddenly and caught at the bed-post to steady herself.
"What did you say?" she asked huskily.
"That Peter's wife is dead. That he's free"—with great tenderness—"free to marry you." She checked herself and peered into Nan's white, expressionless face. "Nan, why don't you—look glad? You are glad, surely?"
"Glad?" repeated Nan vaguely. "No, I can't be glad yet. Not yet."
"You're not worrying just because Peter was angry last time he saw you?"—keenly.
"No. I wasn't thinking of that."
"Then, my dear, why not be glad—glad and thankful that nothing stands between you? I don't think you realise it! You're quite free now. And so is Peter. Your letter to Roger has gone—poor Roger!"—sorrowfully—"it's frightfully rough luck on him, particularly just now. But still, someone always has to go to the wall in a triangular mix-up. And though I like him well enough, I love you and Peter. So I'd rather it were Roger, since it must be someone."
Nan pointed to the bed. On the gay, flowered coverlet lay the crumpled letter.
"My letter to Roger has not gone," she said, speaking very distinctly. "I was on my way to post it when I found you all in the hall, discussing Roger's accident. And now—it can't go."