me at all. He cares for some one else.” Her head remained bent, and her hand still rested upon the skirt.
“It’s a shabby old dress,” said Katharine, and the only sign that Mary’s words had reached her was that she spoke with a little jerk.
“You don’t mind my telling you that?” said Mary, raising herself.
“No, no,” said Katharine; “but you’re mistaken, aren't you?” She was, in truth, horribly uncomfortable, dismayed, indeed disillusioned. She disliked the turn things had taken quite intensely. The indecency of it afflicted her. The suffering implied by the tone appalled her. She looked at Mary furtively, with eyes that were full of apprehension. But if she had hoped to find that these words had been spoken without understanding of their meaning, she was at once disappointed. Mary lay back in her chair, frowning slightly, and looking, Katharine thought, as if she had lived fifteen years or so in the space of a few minutes.
“There are some things, don’t you think, that one can’t be mistaken about?” Mary said, quietly and almost coldly. “That is what puzzles me about this question of being in love. I’ve always prided myself upon being reasonable,” she added. “I didn’t think I could have felt this—I mean if the other person didn’t. I was foolish. I let myself pretend.” Here she paused. “For, you see, Katharine,” she proceeded, rousing herself and speaking with greater energy, “I am in love. There’s no doubt about that. . . . I'm tremendously in love. . . with Ralph.” The little forward shake of her head, which shook a lock of hair, together with her brighter colour, gave her an appearance at once proud and defiant.
Katharine thought to herself, “That’s how it feels then.” She hesitated, with a feeling that it was not for her to speak; and then said, in a low tone, “You’ve got that.”
“Yes,” said Mary; “I've got that. One wouldn’t
