When he got home he found Beatrice sitting with Rosamund.
Dion had grown very fond of Beatrice. He had always been rather touched and attracted by her plaintive charm, but since she had become his sister-in-law he had learnt to appreciate also her rare sincerity and delicacy of mind. She could not grip life, perhaps, could not mold it to her purpose and desire, but she could do a very sweet and very feminine thing, she could live, without ever being intrusive, in the life of another. It was impossible not to see how “wrapped up” she was in Rosamund. Dion had come to feel sure that it was natural to Beatrice to lead her life in another’s, and he believed that Rosamund realized this and often let Beatrice do little things for her which, full of vigor and “go” as she was, she would have preferred to do for herself.
“I’ve been boxing and then to see mother,” he said, as he took Beatrice’s long narrow hand in his. “She sent her best love to you, Rosamund.”
“The dear mother!” said Rosamund gently.
Dion sat down by Beatrice.
“I’m quite upset by something that’s happened,” he continued. “You know poor little Omar, Beattie?”
“Yes. Is he ill?”
“Dead. He was run over yesterday by a four-wheeler.”
“Oh!” said Beatrice.
“Poor little dog,” Rosamund said, again gently.