Nan stared at her vacantly, as though she hardly grasped the meaning of the words. Then, without speaking, she covered her face with her hands. The room seemed to be full of silence—a heavy terrible silence, charged with calamity. At last, unable to endure the burden of the intense quiet any longer, Kitty stirred restlessly. The tiny noise of her movement sounded almost like a pistol-shot in that profound stillness. Nan's hands dropped from her face and she picked up the letter which still lay on the bed and tore it into small pieces, very carefully, tossing them into the waste-paper basket.
Kitty watched her for a moment as though fascinated. Then suddenly she spoke.
"Why are you doing that? Why are you doing that?" she demanded irritably.
Nan looked across at her with steady eyes.
"Because—it's finished! That letter will never be needed now."
"It will! Of course it will!" insisted Kitty. "Not now—but later—when Roger's got over the shock of the accident."
Nan smiled at her curiously.
"Roger will never get over the consequences of his accident," she said, accenting the word "consequences." "Can you imagine what it's going to mean to him to be tied down to a couch for the rest of his days? An outdoor man, like Roger, who has hunted and shot and fished all his life?"
"Of course I can imagine! It's all too dreadful to think of! . . .
But now Peter's free, you can't—you can't mean to give him up for
Roger!"
"I must," answered Nan quietly. "I can't take the last thing he values from a man who's lost nearly everything."