"Perhaps."
"Oh, but he's on his way there," said Edith. "He's human. You've got to be human before you can be spiritual. It's a most important part of the process. Don't you omit it."
"Have I omitted it?"
She stroked one of the thin hands that were out-stretched towards her on the coverlet, and the other closed on her caress. The touch brought the tears into her eyes. She raised her head to keep them from falling.
"Dear," said Edith, and paused and reiterated, "dear, you have about all the big things that I haven't. You're splendid. There's only one thing I want for you. If you could only see how divinely sacred the human part of us is—and how pathetic."
Anne looked at her as she lay there, bright and brave, untroubled by her own mortal pathos. In her, humanity, woman's humanity, was reduced to its simplest expression of spiritual loving and bodily suffering. Anne was a child in her ignorance of the things that had been revealed to Edith lying there.
Looking at her, Anne's tears grew heavy and fell.
"It's your birthday," said Edith softly.
And as she heard Majendie's foot on the stairs Anne dried her eyes on the birthday pocket handkerchief.
"Here she is," said Edith as he entered. "What are you going to do with her? She doesn't have a birthday every day."