thing, or very nearly everything, about her own.
"Poor Mary!" He was very sorry for her. Still, she might have guessed that Ivor wasn’t precisely a monument of constancy.
"Well,” she concluded, "one must put a good face on it.” She wanted to cry, but she wouldn’t allow herself to be weak. There was a silence.
"Do you think," asked Denis hesitatingly—“do you really think that she...that Gombauld..."
"I’m sure of it," Mary answered decisively. There was another long pause.
"I don’t know what to do about it," he said at last, utterly dejected.
"You’d better go away," advised Mary. "It’s the safest thing, and the most sensible."
"But I’ve arranged to stay here three weeks more." "You must concoct an excuse."
"I suppose you’re right."
"I know I am,” said Mary, who was recovering all her firm self-possession. "You can’t go on like this, can you?"
"No, I can’t go on like this," he echoed.
Immensely practical, Mary invented a
