No, we're not
like them. We're tragic. But all the same, we might get really fond of
one another, mightn't we?'
'I am fond of you.'
'I don't see how you can be'--Henrietta looked down at the fruit on
her plate--'considering what has happened,' she almost whispered.
Rose made no answer. The steady, pale flames of the candles stood up
like golden fingers, the shadows behind the table seemed to listen.
'But how fond are you?' Henrietta asked in a loud voice, and Rose,
peeling her apple delicately, said vaguely, 'I don't know how you
measure.'
'By what you would do for a person.'
'Ah, well, I think I have stood that test.'
Henrietta leaned over the table, and a candle flame, as though
startled by her gesture, gave a leap, and the shadows behind were
stirred.
'Yes,' Henrietta said, 'I hated you for a long time, but now I don't.
You've been unhappy, too. And you were right about--that man. I didn't
love him. How could I? How could I? How could anybody? If you hadn't
come that day--'
Rose closed her eyes for a moment and then said wearily, 'It wouldn't
have made any difference. I never made any difference. You didn't love
him; but he never loved you either, child. You were quite safe.'
Henrietta's face flushed hotly. This might be true, but it was not for
Aunt Rose to say it. Once more she leaned across the table and said
clearly, 'Then you're still jealous.'
Rose smiled. It seemed impossible to move her.
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