"
"Probably. You must take it, Lucy, all the same."
"How can I take it, when I know it comes out of his own poor little
waistcoat pocket?"
"You would, if you cared enough about him."
"No. It's just _because_ I care that I can't."
"You do care, then?"
"Yes, of course I do."
"But not in the same way as _he_ cares, Lucy."
Kitty's words sounded like a statement rather than a question, so they
passed unanswered.
"It's all right, Kitty. It's all over, at last. He doesn't care a bit
now, not a bit."
"Oh doesn't he! How can you be so idiotic? All over? I assure you it's
only just begun."
Lucia turned her head away.
"Lucy--what are you going to do with him?"
Lucia smiled sadly. That was the question she had asked Horace ten
years ago, making him responsible. And now the responsibility had been
laid on her. "Kitty--did you notice how thin he is? He looks as if
he'd just come through some awful illness. But I can't ask him about
it."
"Rather not. You don't know whether he's had it, or whether he's going
to have it."
"I wonder if you'd mind asking him to stay a week or two? It might
help him to get strong."
"I doubt it."
"I don't. I think it's just what he wants. Oh, Kitty, could you--would
you, if I wanted it, too?"
"You needn't ask. But what earthly good can it do?"
"If he got strong here it would be so nice to think we sent him away
well. And if he's going to be ill I could look after him--"
Her use of "we" and "I" did not pass unnoticed by the observant Kitty.
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