'No, Henrietta. I left
jealousy behind years ago. We won't discuss this any further. It
doesn't bear discussion. It's beyond it.'
'I know it's very unpleasant,' Henrietta said politely, 'but if we are
to go on living together, we ought to clear things up.'
'We are not going on living together,' Rose said. She left the table
and stood before the fire, one hand on the mantelshelf and one foot on
the fender. The long, soft lines of her dark dress were merged into
the shadows, and the white arm, the white face and neck seemed to be
disembodied. Henrietta, struck dumb by that announcement, and feeling
the situation wrested from the control of her young hands, stared at
the slight figure which had typified beauty for her since she first
saw it.
'Then you don't like me,' she faltered.
Rose did not move, but she began to speak. 'Henrietta, I have loved
you very dearly, almost as if you were my daughter, but you didn't
seem to want my love. I couldn't force it on you, but it has been
here: it is still here. I think you have the power of making people
love you, yet you do nothing for it except, perhaps, exist. One ought
not to ask any more; I don't ask it, but you ought to learn to give.
You'll find it's the only thing worth doing. Taking--taking--one
becomes atrophied. No, it isn't that I don't care for you, it isn't
that. I am going to be married.'
Very carefully, Henrietta put her plate aside, and, supporting her
face in her hands, she pressed her elbows into the table; she pressed
hard until they hurt.
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