“I suppose it is because I had no brothers and sisters and no friends of my own rank,” said Eirene, in a choking voice. “I think I would make almost any sacrifice for you and Maurice, and yet I do these dreadful things without even knowing they are dreadful.”
“Oh, don’t cry!” entreated Zoe anxiously. “I suppose it isn’t your fault, as you say. Lots of people would have an arm cut off for their relations, though they can’t manage not to say nasty things to them.”
“I would give up everything for you and Maurice—except my object in life,” repeated Eirene.
“How funny it would be if you found yourself called upon to give up just that!” mused Zoe aloud, and then realised with a shock that she was approaching dangerous ground.
“What do you mean?” asked Eirene quickly. “How could I be obliged to give that up for you?” and Zoe embarked hastily upon a lame and rambling explanation.
“Why, you see, it struck me suddenly that some one might make you choose between giving up—your object, and having us killed. The sort of thing that happens in a book, don’t you know? I don’t know what made me think of it; I suppose it was my literary mind, which you dislike so much. I can’t help it, I’m always like that. Whatever happens—or even little everyday things which are not happenings at all, simply chances for things to happen—my mind always jumps forward to the end, and I think of all sorts of developments, and they work themselves out on their own lines. You see, this situation is so full of possibilities——”
“But why that one? Why do you think of such fearful things?” moaned Eirene. Zoe, who hoped she had guided the conversation into the safe paths of literary disquisition, was obliged to begin again.
“Oh, it was only nonsense. How could such a thing happen? Whatever your object may be——”
“You shall judge,” said Eirene. “I will tell it you.”
“Oh, no!” cried Zoe, who was by no means anxious to find herself officially burdened with the secret she had discovered unaided. “Why, if there was no other reason, don’t you see that it might be safer for Maurice and me to know nothing if we were questioned? I mean—you don’t tell me what there is to be afraid of, but you seem to think there’s something. Surely, as you have kept your mouth shut so long, you had better do it still?”