“No, I must not love her any more,” agreed Annie, “and that is the pity of it. I must not love her, Alice, but I must pity her until I die. Poor Margaret!”
“Poor Annie,” said Alice. “You worked so hard over that book, dear, and you were so pleased. Annie, what shall you do about it?”
Annie raised her head from Alice's bosom and sat up straight, with a look of terror.
“Alice,” she cried, “I must go to-morrow and see my publishers. I must go down on my knees to them if necessary.”
“Do you mean,” asked Alice slowly, “never to tell?”
“Oh, never, never, never!” cried Annie.
“I doubt,” said Alice, “if you can keep such a matter secret. I doubt if your publishers will consent.”
“They must. I will never have it known! Poor Margaret!”
“I don't pity her at all,” said Alice. “I do pity her husband who worships her, and there is talk of his running for State Senator and this would ruin him. And I am sorry for the children.”
“Nobody shall ever know,” said Annie.