Sylvia obediently sat down.
She had grown morose and variable. She no longer took an interest in Mr. George and his frivolities, and she worked very hard.
Launa talked a little about Lily.
“I know,” said Sylvia, “that she is miserable now, and yet I envy her. They were together for a time, he loved her and she loved him. She can remember it all. What is the use of goodness? Good women live and die without knowing love, mad real love. Men marry them, but—why didn’t I do as he wanted me to do? He loved me, he asked me over and over again to belong to him absolutely, and I refused. He promised to settle all he had on me, and no one need have known. I loved him—how I do still love him! I thought I was doing right, and I believed that God would reward us—us mind—I believed that. I was sure that together we should be rewarded. He would never have died if I had gone, and people could have called me bad, but I would have been gloriously happy with him.”
“It is awful,” said Launa, “the apparent futility of all things.”
“I have never lived, never had any life, nor joy, nothing except empty applause at the theatre. . . . I am so wretched, so wretched. I will go to see Mrs. Herbert and tell her I envy her. He has held her in his arms, he has kissed her, and I ache for the touch of those arms I shall never feel, I hunger for the kisses I shall never have.”
“Ah, never,” said Launa softly.
Sylvia continued:
“I shall be sorry to-morrow when I remember all I have said. You are lucky, you are happy, and I—She is better off; I wish I had had her chances—if I had lived with him he would never have left me. Will he ever know how I love him? Will he, Launa? Say something. Don’t stare at me. Will he? Do you believe it?”
“Many waters cannot quench love, nor death, nor parting, nor marriage, nor anything.”