“Lise,” she said.
“What?”
Janet sat down on the bed, putting out her hand. Unconsciously she began to stroke Lise's hand, and presently it turned and tightened on her own.
“Lise,” she said, “I understand why you—” she could not bring herself to pronounce the words “got drunk,”—“I understand why you did it. I oughtn't to have talked to you that way. But it was terrible to wake up and see you.”
For awhile Lise did not reply. Then she raised herself, feeling her hair with an involuntary gesture, regarding her sister with a bewildered look, her face puckered. Her eyes burned, and under them were black shadows.
“How do you mean—you understand?” she asked slowly. “You never hit the booze.”
Even Lise's language, which ordinarily offended her, failed to change her sudden impassioned and repentant mood. She was astonished at herself for this sudden softening, since she did not really love Lise, and all day she had hated her, wished never to see her again.
“No, but I can understand how it would be to want to,” Janet said. “Lise, I guess we're searching—both of us for something we'll never find.”
Lise stared at her with a contracted, puzzled expression, as of a person awaking from sleep, all of whose faculties are being strained toward comprehension.
“What do you mean?” she demanded. “You and me? You're all right—you've got no kick coming.”