“Yes, my dear; you did not know—how should you?—what a wound I carry here—what a wound we all carry who knew him.”
Again there was a short silence. Margaret was searching for some word of comfort.
“But you did what you could for him, did you not? And—and even Ralph, I think I heard—”
Beatrice turned and looked at her steadily. Margaret read in her face something she could not understand.
“Yes—Ralph?” said Beatrice questioningly.
“You told father so, did you not? He did what he could for Master More?”
Beatrice laid her other hand too over Margaret’s.
“My dear; I do not know. I cannot speak of that.”
“But you said—”
“Margaret, my pet; you would not hurt me, would you? I do not think I can bear to speak of that.”