person was she! She mourned and condoled over this spilt milk--so sure
that poor Deb was but hungrily lapping up drops with the dust of the
floor--that Deb grew almost angry. She took back her own words, and
said she was glad there were no children to come between her and her
husband, who needed only each other. She implied that this union had a
higher significance than could be grasped by a mere suckler of fools
(nice fools, no doubt) and chronicler of small beer (however good the
brew). She believed it, too. Love--great, solemn, immortal Love,
passionate and suffering--was a thing unknown to comfortable,
commonplace Rose, as doubtless to Peter also. They were dear, good
people, and fortunate in their ignorance and in what it spared
them; but it was annoying when ignorance assumed superior knowledge,
and wanted to teach its grandmother to suck eggs. Was it come to this--
that marriage and a family were synonymous terms? No, indeed, nor ever
would, while intelligent men and women walked the earth. Deb reserved
the more sacred confidences for Mary's ear. Mary had loved--strangely
indeed, but tragically, with pain and loss, the dignified concomitants
of the divine state. Mary would understand.




CHAPTER XXVII.



Mary's house was a chill and meagre contrast to that of Rose, but there
was nothing cold in Mary's welcome. To Deb's 'Darling! darling!' and
smothering embrace of furs, the slim woman responded with a grip and
pressure that represented all her strength. Deb, although not the