The bath refreshed her; so did the tea. She put on her little Japanese gown and her straw sandals, and curled up by the window, sipping her tea and watching the declining sun.
Dusk came swiftly, and with it Silvette who bent over and kissed her, and tasted the tea, and wandered about the rooms gossiping, too full of the joy of living to endure silence in herself or in anybody else.
Pangs of swift remorse and self-reproach stabbed her at intervals when she thought of her own happiness and remembered Diana's late unhappy affair.
How far Diana had cured herself, she did not know, but she knew that her sister was still more or less unhappy about Edgerton.
"Did you send him my note?" she inquired.
"Yes: I wrote him, and inclosed it."
"He's a dear boy.... How well he must be doing! He ought to go down on his knees and thank you every day of his life for what he is turning out to be."
"He would have turned out all right anyway, sooner or later."
"Well, he's a horrid pig if he isn't grateful to you.... I don't suppose he has the slightest idea what his regeneration cost you."
"Don't talk that way, Silvie."