Naturally, my first thought was how easy it would be to cut our visit
short. But I did not say this. Had it been a true solution, Frances
would have said it for me long ago.

"Wouldn't Mabel double-up with you?" I said instead, "or give you an
adjoining room, so that you could leave the door between you open?
There's space enough, heaven knows."

And then, as the gong sounded in the hall below for dinner, she said, as
with an effort, this thing:

"Mabel did ask me--on the third night--after I had told her. But I
declined."

"You'd rather be alone than with her?" I asked, with a certain relief.

Her reply was so gravely given, a child would have known there was more
behind it: "Not that; but that she did not really want it."

I had a moment's intuition and acted on it impulsively. "She feels it
too, perhaps, but wishes to face it by herself--and get over it?"

My sister bowed her head, and the gesture made me realize of a sudden
how grave and solemn our talk had grown, as though some portentous thing
were under discussion. It had come of itself--indefinite as a gradual
change of temperature. Yet neither of us knew its nature, for apparently
neither of us could state it plainly. Nothing happened, even in our
words.

"That was my impression," she said, "--that if she yields to it she