She addressed her question to Mrs. March, who answered: “I can understand. But they were pleased with the flowers you sent; people are, at such times, and they haven't many friends.”
“Would you go to see them?” asked the girl. “Would you tell them what I've told you?”
Mrs. March looked at her husband.
“I don't see what good it would do. They wouldn't understand. But if it would relieve you—”
“I'll wait till it isn't a question of self-relief,” said the girl. “Good-bye!”
She left them to long debate of the event. At the end Mrs. March said, “She is a strange being; such a mixture of the society girl and the saint.”
Her husband answered: “She's the potentiality of several kinds of fanatic. She's very unhappy, and I don't see how she's to be happier about that poor fellow. I shouldn't be surprised if she did inspire him to attempt something of that kind.”
“Well, you got out of it very well, Basil. I admired the way you managed. I was afraid you'd say something awkward.”
“Oh, with a plain line of truth before me, as the only possible thing, I can get on pretty well. When it comes to anything decorative, I'd rather leave it to you, Isabel.”
She seemed insensible of his jest. “Of course, he was in love with her. That was the light that came into his face when he was going to do what he thought she wanted him to do.”