"I am not like Edith. I only say stupid things. She thinks them. What's more, in thinking them she only thinks of herself and her precious family. I'm thinking of you, dear, and"—Kitty's voice grew soft—"and of him. You ought to think of him a little too."
"I do think of him. I've been thinking of him all the time."
"I know you have. But don't let him suffer because of the insanely beautiful way you have of thinking."
There was a pause, in which it was evident to Kitty that Lucia was thinking deeply, and beautifully too.
"Have I made him suffer? I'm afraid I did once. He was valuable, and I damaged him."
"Yes; and ever since you've been trying to put him together again; in your own way, not his. That's fatal."
Lucia shook her head and followed her own train of thought. "Kitty, to be perfectly honest, I think—I'm not sure, but I think—from something he said to-day that you were right about him once. I mean about his beginning to care too much. I'm afraid it was so, at Harmouth, towards the end. But it isn't so any more. He tried to tell me just now. He did it beautifully; as if he knew that that would make me happier. At least I think that's what he meant. He didn't say much, but I'm sure he was thinking about his marriage."
"Heaven help his wife then—if he got as far as that. I suppose you take a beautiful view of her, too? Drop it, for goodness' sake, drop it."
"Not I. It would mean dropping him. It's all right, Kitty. You don't know the ways of poets."
"Perhaps not. But I know the ways of men."