The Dean hesitated.
"He said a great deal that was kind and generous."
A slight spasm passed over Kitty's face.
"I suppose he thought it ridiculous to talk of forgiving. So did I—once."
She covered her eyes with her hands—removing them to say, impatiently:
"One can't go on being sorry every moment of the day. No, one can't! Why are we made so? William would agree with me there."
"Dear Lady Kitty!" said the Dean, tenderly—"God forgives—and with Him there is always hope, and fresh beginning."
Kitty shook her head.
"I don't know what that means," she said. "I wonder whether"—she looked at him with a certain piteous and yet affectionate malice—"if you'd been as deep as I, whether you'd know."
The Dean flushed. The hidden wound stung again. Had he, then, no right to speak? He felt himself the elder son of the parable—and hated himself anew.