obscure way, felt to be best worth suffering for. And how was a spirit like Justine’s, thrilling with youth and sympathy, to conceive of an isolated existence as the final answer to that craving? A life circumscribed by one’s own poor personal consciousness would not be life at all—far better the “adventure of the diver” than the shivering alone on the bank! Bessy, reading encouragement in her silence, returned her hand-clasp with an affectionate pressure.
“You would like that, Justine?” she said, secretly proud of having hit on the convincing argument.
“To endow hospitals with your cousin’s money? No; I should want something much more exciting!”
Bessy’s face kindled. “You mean travelling abroad—and I suppose New York in winter?”
Justine broke into a laugh. “I was thinking of your cousin himself when I spoke.” And to Bessy’s disappointed cry—“Then it is Dr. Wyant, after all?” she answered lightly, and without resenting the challenge: “I don’t know. Suppose we leave it to the oracle.”
“The oracle?”
“Time. His question-and—answer department is generally the most reliable in the long run.” She started up, gently drawing Bessy to her feet. “And just at present he reminds me that it’s nearly six, and that you promised Cicely to go and see her before you dress for dinner.”
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