“I don't care for that so much,” said Annie Eustace, “but—I loved her, Alice.”
“Then,” said Alice, “she has stolen more than your book. She has stolen the light by which you wrote it. It is something hideous, hideous.”
Annie gave a queer little dry sob. “Margaret could not have done it,” she moaned.
Alice crossed swiftly to her and knelt beside her. “Darling,” she said, “you must face it. It is better. I do not say so because I do not personally like Margaret Edes, but you must have courage and face it.”
“I have not courage enough,” said Annie and she felt that she had not, for it was one of the awful tasks of the world which was before her: The viewing the mutilated face of love itself.
“You must,” said Alice. She put an arm around the slight figure and drew the fair head to her broad bosom, her maternal bosom, which served her friends in good stead, since it did not pillow the heads of children. Friends in distress are as children to the women of her type.
“Darling,” she said in her stately voice from which the anger had quite gone. “Darling, you must face it. Margaret did read that chapter from your book and she told, or as good as told everybody that she had written it.”
Then Annie sobbed outright and the tears came.
“Oh,” she cried, “Oh, Alice, how she must want success to do anything like that, poor, poor Margaret! Oh, Alice!”
“How she must love herself,” said Alice firmly. “Annie, you must face it. Margaret is a self-lover; her whole heart turns in love toward her own self, instead of toward those whom she should love and who love her. Annie, Margaret is bad, bad, with a strange degenerate badness. She dates back to the sins of the First Garden. You must turn your back upon her. You must not love her any more.”