"Lavender has its uses," said Mrs. Oldrieve.

Here again it must be urged on Zora's behalf that she had reason for her
misanthropy. It is not cheerful for a girl to discover within twenty-four
hours of her wedding that her husband is a hopeless drunkard, and to see
him die of delirium tremens within six weeks. An experience so vivid, like
lightning must blast something in a woman's conception of life. Because one
man's kisses reeked of whisky the kisses of all male humanity were
anathema.

After a long spell of silence she came and laid her cheek against her
mother's.

"This is the very last time we'll speak of it, dear. I'll lock the skeleton
in its cupboard and throw away the key."

She went upstairs to dress and came down radiant. At dinner she spoke
exultingly of her approaching freedom. She would tear off her widow's weeds
and deck herself in the flower of youth. She would plunge into the great
swelling sea of Life. She would drink sunshine and fill her soul with
laughter. She would do a million hyperbolic things, the mention of which
mightily confused her mother. "I, my dear," said the hen in the fairy tale,
"never had the faintest desire to get into water." So, more or less, said
Mrs. Oldrieve.

"Will you miss me very dreadfully?" asked Zora.

"Of course," but her tone was so lacking in conviction that Zora laughed.