And all the while Sabine had been suffering, quietly, deep inside, behind the frankly painted face . . . suffering in a way which no one in the world had ever suspected; for it was like tearing out her heart, to talk thus of Richard Callendar, even to speak his name.
Aloud she said, "And how is Mrs. Pentland. . . . I mean Olivia . . . not my cousin. . . . I know how she is . . . no better."
"No better. . . . It is one of those things which I can never understand. . . . Why God should have sent such a calamity to a good man like my brother."
"But Olivia . . ." began Sabine, putting an end abruptly to what was clearly the prelude to a pious monologue.
"Oh! . . . Olivia," replied Aunt Cassie, launching into an account of the young Mrs. Pentland. "Olivia is an angel . . . an angel, a blessing of God sent to my poor brother. But she's not been well lately. She's been rather sharp with me . . . even with poor Miss Peavey, who is so sensitive. I can't imagine what has come over her."
It seemed that the strong, handsome Olivia was suffering from nerves. She was, Aunt Cassie said, unhappy about something, although she could not see why Olivia shouldn't be happy . . . a woman with everything in the world.
"Everything?" echoed Sabine. "Has any one in the world got everything?"
"It is Olivia's fault if she hasn't everything. All the materials are there. She has a good husband . . . a husband who never looks at other women."
"Nor at his own wife either," interrupted Sabine. "I know all about Anson. I grew up with him."
Aunt Cassie saw fit to ignore this. "She's rich," she said, resuming the catalogue of Olivia's blessings.
And again Sabine interrupted, "But what does money mean Aunt Cassie? In our world one is rich and that's the end
