And then again: “Thank you, there is nothing you can do, but it is kind of you to offer. The ladies will be grateful for your sympathy. Who shall I say called?”
“Iris,” pleaded Margaret, “come away.”
The girl started. “I can’t,” she answered, dully.
“You must come, dear—come into my room.”
Unwillingly, Iris suffered herself to be led away. It is only the surface emotion which is relieved by tears. Within the prison-house of the soul, when Grief, clad in grey garments, enters silently and prepares to remain, there is no weeping. One hides it, as the Spartan covered the bleeding wound in his breast.
“Dear,” said Margaret, “my heart aches for you.”
“She was all I had,” whispered Iris.
“But not all you have. Lynn and I, and Doctor Brinkerhoff—surely we are something.”
“Did you ever care?” asked Iris, her despairing eyes fixed upon Margaret.
The older woman shrank from the question. She was tempted to dissemble, but one tells the truth in the presence of Death.