particularly care what this woman thought in ways as subtle as this?
Obvious kindness was her intention, not mental charity pursued into
tortuous by-paths. And, besides, her frank, boyish cynicism, its
wariness, revolted, even while she felt herself flattered at the
prospect of the confidences that seemed to tremble on Mrs. Denby's
lips. It wouldn't do to "let herself in for anything"; to "give
herself away." No! She adopted a manner of cool, entirely reflective
kindliness. But all along she was not sure that she was thoroughly
successful. There was a lingering impression that Mrs. Denby was
penetrating the surface to the unwilling interest beneath. Cecil
suspected that this woman was trained in discriminations and
half-lights to which she and her generation had joyfully made
themselves blind. She felt uncomfortably young; a little bit smiled
at in the most kindly of hidden ways. Just as she was leaving, the
subversive softness came close to her again, like a wave of too much
perfume as you open a church-door; as if some one were trying to
embrace her against her will.

"You will understand," said Mrs. Denby, "that you have done the very
nicest thing in the world. I am horribly lonely. I have few women
friends. Perhaps it is too much to ask--but if you could call again
sometime. Yes ... I would appreciate it so greatly."

She let go of Cecil's hand and walked to the door, and stood with
one long arm raised against the curtain, her face turned toward the
hall.

"There is no use," she said, "in attempting to hide my husband's life,
for every one knows what it was, but then--yes, I think you will
understand. I am a childless woman, you see; he was infinitely