“Would you really? It is Felicia.”
“And mine is Katherine. I wonder how it would sound?”
“Katherine?” echoed Felicia, with a puzzled smile. “What do you mean?”
“I have not heard it for very many years. To everybody I have known I have been Mrs. Stapleton. I should like to be called by my own name once again. Would you do so?”
“Oh! yes—gladly. But how sad! How very, very lonely you must be. I think I should pine away with loneliness. There must be quite a hundred people who call me Felicia.”
“Then you must give us poor forlorn creatures some of your happiness,” said Katherine, with a smile. “You must make allowances for us. Do not judge us too harshly.”
“Oh! you must not compare yourself with the others,” said Felicia; “you are quite different from—Mme. Popea, for instance.”
“Ah, no, not very much,” said Katherine, with a touch of bitterness. “We only differ a little through the circumstances of our upbringing, nationality, and so on. We are all the same at heart, weary of ourselves, of life, of each other. Most women have their homes, their children, their pleasant circle of friends. None of us has. We are failures. Either we have sought to get too much from life and heaven has punished us for presumption, or circumstance has been against us—we have been too poor to conquer it. Ah, no, my dear child, don't think that we are merely a set of selfish, coarse, ill-tempered women. Each of us knows in her own heart that she is a failure, and she knows that all the others know it.”
A flush of colour bad come into her delicate cheek as she said this, and her lips closed rather tightly, showing fine, almost imperceptible vertical lines. Yet her eyes looked kindly at Felicia and smoothed any rough impression her words may have made.
The other's eyes met hers rather wonderingly. The tragedy that underlay this commonplace pension life was a new conception.