"No! I never thought you were bad—not even then. I don't think I blamed you."
"Oh, I guess I was to blame," muttered Nora, "I knew it, all right."
"I want you to know that I don't blame you and that I don't think you're bad."
"I don't see that that's got anything to do with it. I guess I know if I'm bad or not.... I know that I can't go to confession, and I believe I'll go to hell ... and I don't care much if I do.... And I know what happened on account of me too."
Now it was Mary who changed colour, lost her composure.
"That—my fault more than yours—" she stammered.
And Nora grew more composed. There was even a strange air of dignity about her as she said after a moment:
"I don't want you to think about what's past, Mrs. Carlin. It won't do any good. I've done what I knew was wicked and—I don't know if I'm sorry or not. So you see I don't want you to forgive me, even if you wanted to. I don't ask anybody's forgiveness, because what difference would it make? It wouldn't change anything."
Abruptly she retreated into the pantry and closed the door. Mary, with shaking hands, poured herself a cup of strong coffee and drank it black. Well, that was over. And Nora was right, it was no use talking and nothing she could do would make any difference.
She went slowly upstairs, thinking that she felt more respect and liking for Nora than ever before—felt it now perhaps for the first time. But it would be impossible to make Nora feel that—if she tried she would strike the wrong note somehow, she was made like that—clumsy—yes, and worse than that, with impulses to hurt, that came so suddenly she couldn't resist. She shrugged her shoulders. Best to drop it all. She had other things to think about anyway....