as borne in upon her how completely
in running her risk she had lost her prize, lost it so entirely that
she had no longer the right, in talking of Ralph, to presume that
her knowledge of him supplanted all other knowledge. She no longer
completely possessed her love, since his share in it was doubtful; and
now, to make things yet more bitter, her clear vision of the way to face
life was rendered tremulous and uncertain, because another was witness
of it. Feeling her desire for the old unshared intimacy too great to be
borne without tears, she rose, walked to the farther end of the room,
held the curtains apart, and stood there mastered for a moment. The
grief itself was not ignoble; the sting of it lay in the fact that she
had been led to this act of treachery against herself. Trapped, cheated,
robbed, first by Ralph and then by Katharine, she seemed all dissolved
in humiliation, and bereft of anything she could call her own. Tears of
weakness welled up and rolled down her cheeks. But tears, at least, she
could control, and would this instant, and then, turning, she would face
Katharine, and retrieve what could be retrieved of the collapse of her
courage.

She turned. Katharine had not moved; she was leaning a little forward in
her chair and looking into the fire. Something in the attitude reminded
Mary of Ralph. So he would sit, leaning forward, looking rather fixedly
in front of him, while his mind went far away, exploring, speculating,
until he broke off with his, "Well, Mary?"--and the silence, that had
been so full of romance to her, gave way to the most delightful talk
that she had ever known.

Something unfamiliar in the pose of the silent figure, something still,
solemn, significant about it, made her hold her breath. She paused. Her
thoughts were without bitterness. She was surprised by her own quiet
and confidence. She came back silently, and sat once more by Katharine's
side. Mary had no wish to speak. In the silence she seemed to have lost
her isolation; she was at once the sufferer and the pitiful spectator of
suffering; she was happier than she had ever been; she was more bereft;
she was rejected, and she was immensely beloved. Attempt to express
these sensations was vain, and, moreover, she could not help believing
that, without any words on her side, they were shared. Thus for some
time longer they sat silent, side by side, while Mary fingered the fur
on the skirt of the old dress.

CHAPTER XXII