“Shall I ever get back?” The girl moved to the door. Her figure swayed forward yieldingly as if she would give herself into the keeping of the sun-drenched, pine-soaked air. “Enchantment!” she murmured.
“It is a healing place,” said the habitant of it, low, as if to herself.
A sudden and beautiful pity softened and sobered Io’s face. “Miss Van Arsdale,” said she with quiet sincerity; “if there should ever come a time when I can do you a service in word or deed, I would come from the other side of the world to do it.”
“That is a kindly, but rather exaggerated gratitude.”
“It isn’t gratitude. It’s loyalty. Whatever you have done, I believe you were right. And, right or wrong, I—I am on your side. But I wonder why you have been so good to me. Was it a sort of class feeling?”
“Sex feeling would be nearer it,” replied the other. “There is something instinctive which makes women who are alone stand by each other.”
Io nodded. “I suppose so. Though I’ve never felt it, or the need of it before this. Well, I had to speak before I left, and I suppose I must go on soon.”
“I shall miss you,” said the hostess, and added, smiling, “as one misses a stimulant. Stay through the rest of the month, anyway.”
“I’d like to,” answered Io gratefully. “I’ve written Delavan that I’m coming back—and now I’m quite dreading it. Do you suppose there ever yet was a woman with understanding of herself?”
“Not unless she was a very dull and stupid woman with little to understand,” smiled Miss Van Arsdale. “What are you doing to-day?”