men’s absurdities, and coming at last to doubt her own self, held me in a very anguish of pity.
“You see yourself,” he began again in a downcast manner. “She could not have really . . . She mentioned you several times. Good friend. Sensible man. So I wanted to tell you myself—let you know the truth. A fellow like that! How could it be? She was lonely. And perhaps for a while . . . Mere nothing. There could never have been a question of love for my Freya—such a sensible girl”
“Man!” I cried, rising upon him wrathfully, “don’t you see that she died of it?”
He got up too. “No! no!” he stammered, as if angry. “The doctors! Pneumonia. Low state. The inflammation of the . . . They told me. Pneua”
He did not finish the word. It ended in a sob. He flung his arms out in a gesture of despair, giving up his ghastly pretence with a low, heartrending cry:
“And I thought that she was so sensible!”
THE TEMPLE PRESS, PRINTERS, LETCHWORTH
