Mary withdrew it. “I shall have to go, Bessie,” she said. “How is your aunt?”
“Must you? Then I shall always say that it was your fault that I couldn't get a realizing sense—that you prevented me, just when I was about to see myself as others see me—as you see me. She's very well!” Bessie sighed in earnest, and her friend gave her hand a little pressure of true sympathy. “But of course it's rather dull here, now.”
“I hate to have you staying on. Couldn't you come down to us for a week?”
“No. We both think it's best to be here when Alan gets back. We want him to go down with us.” Bessie had seldom spoken openly with Mary Enderby about her brother; but that was rather from Mary's shrinking than her own; she knew that everybody understood his case. She went so far now as to say: “He's ever so much better than he has been. We have such hopes of him, if he can keep well, when he gets back this time.”
“Oh, I know he will,” said Mary, fervently. “I'm sure of it. Couldn't we do something for you, Bessie?”
“No, there isn't anything. But—thank you. I know you always think of me, and that's worlds. When are you coming up again?”
“I don't know. Next week, some time.”
“Come in and see me—and Alan, if he should be at home. He likes you, and he will be so glad.”
Mary kissed Bessie for consent. “You know how much I admire Alan. He could be anything.”
“Yes, he could. If he could!”