“You mean,”—Mrs. Ferrall looked at her keenly—“that he has been here?”
“No. I telephoned him; and I asked him to drive with me.”
“Oh, Sylvia, what nonsense! Why on earth do you stir yourself up by that sort of silliness at this late date? What use is it? Can't you let him alone?”
“I—No, I can't, it seems. Grace, I was—I felt so—so strangely about it all.”
“About what, little idiot?”
“About leaving him—alone.”
“Are you Stephen Siward's keeper?” demanded Mrs. Ferrall, exasperated.
“I felt as though I were, for awhile. He is ill.”
“With an illness that, thank God, you are not going to nurse through life. Don't look at me that way, dear. I'm obliged to speak harshly; I'm obliged to harden my heart to such a monstrous idea. You know I love you; you know I care deeply for that poor boy—but do you think I could be loyal to either of you and not say what I do say? He is doomed, as sure as you sit there! He has fallen, and no one can help him. Link after link he has broken with his own world; his master-vice holds him faster, closer, more absolutely, than hell ever held a lost soul!”
“Grace, I cannot endure—”