"Bruce never had a better one. I rather imagine you knew him more intimately than any of his kin. He grew away from us, toward something of his own. As was right, of course."
Kintyre had no reply.
"And then," she said in a matter-of-fact tone, "he was good. Not holy, but good. I don't think he will be too long in Purgatory."
Kintyre, for whom the soul was a metaphor, had to think over every aspect of her remark until he could understand that, quite simply, she believed it. That was not a consolation he wished to take from her.
"But damn," she whispered, "I'll miss him!"
They drove on in silence. At last she said, more awkwardly than the average modern woman: "I have to ask you about one thing. I saw a newspaper today. This girl he—he knew—"
"Yes," said Kintyre, focusing intently on the traffic. "I know her. They were living together. She's an altogether fine person who would have made him a wonderful wife. Bruce was very much in love with her and wanted to get married. She hesitated only because she—was afraid she might hurt him—she would have changed her mind soon. They were happy."
Corinna sighed. He could almost feel how she relaxed. "Thank you," she said. "I have a lot to thank you for, haven't I? We needn't say any more about this except—if the girl would like to see me, or have me visit her, I'd be more than glad to."
"I think so," said Kintyre. "In a few more days."
At once he damned himself for an idiot. He had spoken truth; but it gave Margery the chance to relate a few truths of her own, if she chose, and what might come of that?