“It hurts, doesn't it?” said Mary French. “But wait till he seems to you a great strong archangel—an archangel with only the weakness of dabbling his wings in the dirt—and you will withhold from him nothing, no one, that may be of use to him. If he wants to put me by for a while, it is his will. You cannot take my place. I cannot fill yours.”
“Oh, don't!” gasped Emeline. “I am not that sort of woman—I should kill!”
“That is because you have not lived with him. I would rather have him make me suffer than not have him at all.”
“Oh, don't! I can't bear it! Help me!” prayed Emeline, stretching her hands to the wife.
Mary French met her with one hand and the unflinching smile. Her flesh was firm and warm, while Emeline's was cold and quivering.
“You have never loved anybody, have you?”
“No.”
“But you have thought you did?”
“I was engaged before I came here.”