“I am sorry I have n't made my meaning clear,” she said, resuming her seat by the window; “and I don't know whether I can make it much clearer. Anyhow, I'll try, mother. I used to think that love was either a school-girl sentimentality, a fiction of the poets, or else the sort of thing that lands married women who don't know how to take care of themselves in the divorce court. I find it is n't. That's all.”
Mrs. Hardacre ran up to the window and faced Norma. “And Morland?”
“It won't break his heart.”
“What won't?”
“The breaking off of our engagement.”
Mrs. Hardacre looked at her daughter in a paralysis of bewilderment.
“The madhouse is the only place for you.”
“Perhaps it is. Anyway I can't marry a man when I care for his intimate friend—and when the intimate friend cares for me. Somehow it's not quite decent. Even you, mother, can see that.”
“So you and the intimate friend have arranged it all between you?”
“Oh, no. He does n't know that I care, and he does n't know that I know that he cares. I'll say that over again if you like. It is quite accurately expressed. And you know I'm not in the habit of lying.”