THE SACRED FOUNT
there was enough of her left to make up to poor Briss."
"Precisely—and it's just what we saw, and just what, with her other dashes of the same sort, led us to have to face the question of her being—well, what I say. Or rather," I added, "what you say. That is," I amended, to keep perfectly straight, "what you say you don't say."
I took indeed too many precautions for my friend not to have to look at them. "Extravagant?" The irritation of the word had grown for her, yet I risked repeating it, and with the effect of its giving her another pause. "I tell you she isn't that!"
"Exactly; and it's only to ask you what in the world then she is."
"She's horrid!" said Mrs. Briss.
"'Horrid'?" I gloomily echoed.
"Horrid. It wasn't," she then developed with decision, "a 'dash,' as you say, 'of the same sort'—though goodness knows of what sort you mean: it wasn't, to be plain, a 'dash' at all." My companion was plain. "She settled. She stuck." And finally, as I could but echo her again: "She made love to him."
"But—a—really?"
"Really. That's how I knew."
I was at sea. "'Knew'? But you saw."
"I knew—that is I learnt—more than I saw. I knew she couldn't be gone."
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