Mrs. Linden.
And much, much older, Nora.
Nora.
Yes, perhaps a little older—not much—ever so little. [She suddenly checks herself; seriously.] Oh, what a thoughtless wretch I am! Here I sit chattering on, and Dear, dear Christina, can you forgive me!
Mrs. Linden.
What do you mean, Nora?
Nora.
[Softly.] Poor Christina! I forgot: you are a widow.
Mrs. Linden.
Yes; my husband died three years ago.
Nora.
I know, I know; I saw it in the papers. Oh, believe me, Christina, I did mean to write to you; but I kept putting it off, and something always came in the way.
Mrs. Linden.
I can quite understand that, Nora dear.
Nora.
No, Christina; it was horrid of me. Oh, you poor darling! how much you must have gone through!—And he left you nothing?
Mrs. Linden.
Nothing.
Nora.
And no children?
