She shrugged her shoulders. She would carry on indefinitely. To act otherwise would open the door to gossip. She was not going to be done to death by slanderous tongues. She rose and stood before him in slim, rigid dignity.
“If I can’t out-brave the world, I’m a poor thing.”
“You stay here, then?” he asked.
“Why not? Where else should I go?”
“I came with a little note from my sister,” said Olifant, drawing a letter from his pocket and handing it to her.
Olivia read it through. Then she said, in a softened voice:
“You’re a dear, kind friend.”
“It’s my sister,” he smiled; but he could not keep an appeal out of his eyes. “Why shouldn’t you?” he asked suddenly. “It will be hateful for you here, for all your courage. And you’ll be fighting what? Just shadows, and you’ll expend all your strength in it. What good will it do you or anybody? You want rest, real rest, of body and soul.”
She met his eyes.
“Do I look so woebegone?”