Palla’s heart was beating heavily as she leaned on the table, her cup untasted, her idle fingers crumbing the morsel of biscuit between them.
After a moment she said: “So you have concluded that you care for John Estridge?”
“Yes, I care,” said Ilse absently, the same odd, sweet smile curving her cheeks.
“That is––wonderful,” said Palla, not looking at her.
Ilse remained silent, her blue gaze aloof.
A maid came and turned up the lamps, and went away again.
Palla said in a low voice: “Are you––afraid?”
“No.”
They both remained silent until she rose to go. Palla, walking with her to the head of the stairs, holding one of her hands imprisoned, said with an effort: “I am frightened, dear.... I can’t help it.... You will be certain, first, won’t you?–––”
“It is as certain as death,” said Ilse in a low, still voice.