The servant came back. The caller said she would only keep her a moment: it was necessary she should see her.
The woman rose from her desk. “Tell the boy to wait. Ask the lady to come in.”
A young woman in a silk dress, with a cloak reaching to her feet, entered. She was tall and slight, with fair hair.
“I knew you would not mind. I wished to see you so!”
The woman offered her a seat by the fire. “May I loosen your cloak?—the room is warm.”
“I wanted so to come and see you. You are the only person in the world who could help me! I know you are so large, and generous, and kind to other women!” She sat down. Tears stood in her large blue eyes: she was pulling off her little gloves unconsciously.
“You know Mr.—” (she mentioned the name of a well-known writer): “I know you meet him often in your work. I want you to do something for me!”
The woman on the hearth-rug looked down at her.
“I couldn’t tell my father or my mother, or any one else; but I can tell you, though I know so little of you. You know, last summer he came and stayed with us a month. I saw a great deal of him. I don’t know if he liked me; I know he liked my singing, and we rode together—I liked him more than any man I have ever seen. Oh, you know it isn’t true that a woman can only like a man when he likes her; and I thought, perhaps, he liked me a little. Since we have been in town we have asked, but he has never come to see us. Perhaps people have been saying something to him about me. You know him, you are always meeting him, couldn’t you say or do anything for me?” She looked up with her lips white and drawn. “I feel sometimes as if I were going mad! Oh, it is so terrible to be a woman!” The woman looked down at her. “Now I hear he likes another woman. I don’t know who she is, but they say she is so clever, and writes. Oh, it is so terrible, I can’t bear it.”
The woman leaned her elbow against the mantelpiece, and her face against her hand. She looked down into the fire. Then she turned and looked at the younger woman. “Yes,” she said, “it is a very terrible thing to be a woman.” She was silent. She said with some difficulty: “Are you sure you love him? Are you sure it is not only the feeling a young girl has for an older man who is celebrated, and of whom every one is talking?”