Agatha took in her friend’s high courage as she looked at the eyes where fright barely fluttered under the poised suspense. She approved of the plan. It appealed to her by its sheer audacity. She murmured that if there were anything that she could do, Milly had only to come to her.
Oh, well, Milly had come. What she wanted Agatha to do—if she saw him and he should say anything about it—was simply to take the line that he was safe.
Agatha said that was the line she did take. She wasn’t going to let herself think, and Milly mustn’t think—not for a moment—that he wasn’t, that there was anything to be afraid of.
“Anything to be afraid of here. That’s my point,” said Milly.
“Mine is that here or anywhere—wherever he is—there mustn’t be any fear. How can he get better if we keep him wrapped in it? You’re not afraid. You’re not afraid.”
Persistent, invincible affirmation was part of her method, her secret.
Milly replied a little wearily (she knew nothing about the method).
“I haven’t time to be afraid,” she said. “And as long as you’re not—”
“It’s you who matter,” Agatha cried. “You’re so near him. Don’t you realize what it means to be so near?”
Milly smiled sadly, tenderly. (As if she didn’t know!)