At first she thought I meant a member of my Familey. But when she understood she looked serious.
“You are too intence, Bab,” she said solemly. “You suffer too much. You are wearing yourself out.”
“There is no other way,” I replied in broken tones.
Jane went to the Mirror and looked at herself. Then she turned to me.
“Others don’t do it.”
“I must work out my own Salvation, Jane,” I observed firmly. But she had roused me from my apathy, and I went into Sis’s room, returning with a box of candy some one had sent her. “I must feel, Jane, or I cannot write.”
“Pooh! Loads of writers get fat on it. Why don’t you try Comedy? It pays well.”
“Oh—money!” I said, in a disgusted tone.
“Your forte, of course, is Love,” she said. “Probably that’s because you’ve had so much experience.” Owing to certain reasons it is generaly supposed that I have experienced the gentle Passion. But not so, alas! “Bab,” Jane said, suddenly, “I have been your friend for a long time. I have never betrayed you. You can trust me with your Life. Why don’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what?”