She set her teeth, clenched her hand. Hilary, with his back to her, did not see her face, but he heard her tone.
"You have your children, you have your—duty," he said in a trembling voice. "Just because it is hard, you can't—forsake it."
"No," said Mary blankly. "But ... I can't see ... I have been dutiful ... but now—I can't be the same. I can never be the same! What can I do?"
"Not the same ... but perhaps ... better," said Hilary from the window.
"Better?" she cried in a low tone of astonishment.
"Better—yes.... When one near to us fails ... must we not feel we have failed, too?... Can we stand aside, and condemn?... Are we not ... our brother's keeper?"
After these faltering yet firm words there was silence for a time. Then Mary said in a hard tone:
"I can't see where I have failed.... I have tried to do my duty, as I saw it.... I can't feel responsible for this ... and I can never forgive it."
"Only love can forgive."