“Did––did you hear it!” she faltered.
“Every word.”
For a few moments she sat motionless and very white in her knowledge that this man had heard her confess her own conversion.
Her brain whirled: she was striving to think steadily trying to find the right way to reassure him––to forestall any impulsive chivalry born of imaginary obligation.
“Jim,” she said in a colorless voice, “there are so many worse things than losing money. I think Mr. Pawling’s suicide shocked me much more than the knowledge that I should be obliged to earn my own living like millions of other women.
“Of course it scared me for a few minutes. I couldn’t help that. But after I got over the first unpleasant––feeling, I concluded to go about my business in life until it came time for me to adjust myself to the scheme of things.”
She smiled without effort: “Besides, it’s not really so bad. I have a house in Shadow Hill to which I can retreat when I sell this one; and with a tiny income from the sale of this house, and with what I can earn, I ought to be able to support myself very nicely.”
“So you––expect to sell?”
“Yes, I must. Even if I sell my house and land in Connecticut I cannot afford this house any longer.”
“I see.”