not be in love. . .. But I didn’t mean to talk about that; I only wanted you to know. There’s another thing I want to tell you. . .” She paused. “I haven’t any authority from Ralph to say it; but I’m sure of this—he’s in love with you.”
Katharine looked at her again, as if her first glance must have been deluded, for, surely, there must be some outward sign that Mary was talking in an excited, or bewildered, or fantastic manner. No; she still frowned, as if she sought her way through the clauses of a difficult argument, but she still looked more like one who reasons than one who feels.
“That proves that you’re mistaken—utterly mistaken,” said Katharine, speaking reasonably, too. She had no need to verify the mistake by a glance at her own recollections, when the fact was so clearly stamped upon her mind that if Ralph had any feeling towards her it was one of critical hostility. She did not give the matter another thought, and Mary, now that she had stated the fact, did not seek to prove it, but tried to explain to herself, rather than to Katharine, her motives in making the statement.
She had nerved herself to do what some large and imperious instinct demanded her doing; she had been swept on the breast of a wave beyond her reckoning.
“I’ve told you,” she said, “because I want you to help me. I don’t want to be jealous of you. And I am—I’m fearfully jealous. The only way, I thought, was to tell you.”
She hesitated, and groped in her endeavour to make her feelings clear to herself.
“If I tell you, then we can talk; and when I’m jealous, I can tell you. And if I'm tempted to do something frightfully mean, I can tell you; you could make me tell you. I find talking so difficult; but loneliness frightens me. I should shut it up in my mind. Yes, that’s what
