nly to have been
swallowed up in the fatal despair of a woman who discovers that she has
lived too long. Gray hair, wrinkles, crow's-feet, tired eyes, drawn
mouth, and the terrible tell-tale hollow under the chin--these were
what I saw in Mary Ispenlove. She had learnt that the only thing worth
having in life is youth. I possessed everything that she lacked. Surely
the struggle was unequal. Fate might have chosen a less piteous victim.
I felt profoundly sorry for Mary Ispenlove, and this sorrow was
stronger in me even than the uneasiness, the false shame (for it was
not a real shame) which I experienced in her presence. I put out my
hands towards her, as it were, involuntarily. She sprang to me, took
them, and kissed me as I lay in bed.

'How beautiful you look--like that!' she exclaimed wildly, and with a
hopeless and acute envy in her tone.

'But why--' I began to protest, astounded.

'What will you think of me, disturbing you like this? What will you
think?' she moaned. And then her voice rose: 'I could not help it; I
couldn't, really. Oh, Carlotta! you are my friend, aren't you?'

One thing grew swiftly clear to me: that she was as yet perfectly
unaware of the relations between Frank and myself. My brain searched
hurriedly for an explanation of the visit. I was conscious of an
extraordinary relief.

'You are my friend, aren't you?' she repeated insistently.

Her tears were dropping on my bosom. But could I answer that I was her
friend? I did not wish to be her enemy; she and Frank and I were dolls in
the great hands of fate, irresponsible, guiltless, meet for an
understanding sympathy. Why was I not still her friend? Did not my heart
bleed for her? Yet such is the power of convention over honourableness
that I could not bring myself to reply directly, 'Yes, I am your friend.'

'We have known each other a long time,' I ventured.

'There was no one else I could come to,' she said.

Her whole frame was shaking. I sat up, and asked her to pass my
dressing-gown, which I put round my shoulders. Then I rang the bell.

'What are you going to do?' she demanded fearfully.

'I am going to have the gas-stove lighted and some tea brought in, and
then we will talk.

Take your hat off, dear, and sit down in that chair. You'll be more
yourself after a cup of tea.'

How young I was then! I remember my naive satisfaction in this exhibition
of tact. I was young and hard, as youth is apt to be--hard in spite of
the comp