She laid the unopened rosebud on Palla’s knees; her preoccupied gaze wandered around that silent, sunlit place.
“I could have taken my pistol,” she said softly, 338 “and I could have killed a few among those whose doctrines at last slew Vanya.... Or I could have killed myself.”
She turned and her remote gaze came back to fix itself on Palla.
“But, somehow, I think that Vanya would grieve.... And he has grieved enough. Do you think so, Palla?”
“Yes.”
Ilse said thoughtfully: “There is always enough death on earth. And to live honestly, and love undauntedly, and serve humanity with a clean heart is the most certain way to help the slaying of that thing which murdered Vanya.”
Palla gazed at Marya, profoundly preoccupied by the astounding revelation that she had been Vanya’s legal wife; and in her brown eyes the stunned wonder of it still remained, nor could she seem to think of anything except of that amazing fact.
When they stood up to take leave of Marya, the rosebud dropped from Palla’s lap, and Marya picked it up and offered it again.
“It should open,” she said, her strange smile glimmering. “Cold water and a little salt, my Palla––that is all rosebuds need––that is all we women need––a little water to cool and freshen us; a little salt for all the doubtful worldly knowledge we imbibe.”
She took Palla’s hands and bent her lips to them, then lifted her tawny head: