‘You know,’ she said, ‘poor Hugo . . . that never would have done. I was very much afraid, at one time, that you would marry him. Poor, dear Hugo . . . he would not have been a good husband . . . it is better as it is. . . .’
And I felt that I could not bear it . . . I felt I must tell her everything, that it was all a mistake . . . that everything was wrong. . . . I looked into the fire, and the words rose up to my lips, and I nearly told her then, but I am glad that I did not.
I thought:
‘Why should I say it? She is so very old, she is going to die . . . she need never know at all. If souls should be immortal, she will know about it then . . . but I don’t believe they are. I think that she will end . . . I think Hugo has ended.’
And so I smiled at her.
And she said:
‘You are happy? I think that you are happy, my dear?’
And I said:
‘Yes, Grandmother, I am quite happy, now.’
She said: