"No, you mustn't go with me, David. There are too many things to do—for to-night——"
"Let me go, Vina," Bedient said.
In the cab, she told him the story of Mary McCullom's failure as an artist and conquest as a woman—the same story she had told Beth Truba—and what meant the love of the nurseryman—to Mary McCullom.
Vina's voice had a strange sound in the shut cab. She felt Bedient's presence, as some strength almost too great for her vitality to sustain. He did not speak.
"Sometimes it seems almost sacrilege," she said in a trembling tone, "to be so happy as we have been…. I should have persevered until I found her—after her … oh, what that must have meant to her!… And she used to rely upon me so——"
* * * * *
"… Oh, Vina!" the woman whispered, holding out her arms. "I have wanted you!… I have waited for you to come…. I knew you would. I always loved you, because you made me take him!… We were so happy…. Draw the coverlet back——"
A new-born child was sleeping at her breast.
Vina had knelt. Her head bent forward in silent passion.
"Won't you, Vina—won't you take him?"