"I have one thing to ask you—I dare not ask any more," she said. Her voice had a wavering sound.
"Ask," he said, "and I'll tell you the truth."
"You don't think it wicked of me, to have come? Because I did come. I thought that I must, because—because I could never explain at any other time, in any other way. You don't think—lightly of me?"
"Oh, my dear, my dear," he said—and she felt him tremble, though he did not touch her. "I think more dearly of you than of anything in heaven. The world holds no other woman for me. So it will always be."
She said quietly, "It's very wonderful. I don't understand it at all. I thought perhaps—I wondered—if I had been angry—"
"I deserve that, and more."
"I know I ought to be angry. So I should be if—"
"Well, my love, well?"
But she couldn't tell him, and asked him to let her go. They parted at the entry of the wood with Good night, and Lucy flitted back with a pain in her heart like the sound of wailing. But women can wail at heart and show a fair face to the world. Her stretched smile had lost none of its sweetness, her eyes none of their brightness. Vera Nugent watched her narrowly, and led the conversation upstairs. She thought that she detected a pensive note, but assured herself that all was pretty well. "That's a remarkable woman," she said to herself, "who would rather have a heartache now than grin with misery next week. After this I'd trust her anywhere."