“Yes? . . .”
“Mrs. van Eilenburgh . . . is a niece . . .”
“Yes, I know.”
“I am sorry . . . that you should just have happened to meet her.”
Constance once more shrugged her shoulders:
“Why?”
And she looked Bertha full in the face:
“Why?” she repeated. “There are things, Bertha, which I intend to treat as the past. I don’t know if others will always look upon them as the present. If you wish to be a sister for me, in deed as well as in name, help me. Do you understand what I mean? I am determined to treat what happened years ago as the past. I’ve made up my mind to it, in spite of the fact that our friends, I believe, take pleasure in still looking upon the past as the present. It’s a great compliment to me, no doubt, but, alas, I can’t accept it: I am fully fifteen years older now; and I am determined to make those fifteen years count. Do you understand me?”
“I think I understand you, Constance.”
“And you don’t approve. You also want me never to grow old and never to bring my fifteen years into account.”
“Ssh, Constance! There’s some one coming in at the door . . .”
“Don’t be afraid: I’ve finished. Good-bye, Bertha; and help me, if you can. . . .”
She pressed her hand. Bertha was on thorns.
