They were indeed striking contrasts. At no time had they seemed more
so than now, as they stood there silently facing each other--Beatrice,
tall, fair with the wonderful Madonna beauty; Lois, small and dark,
the quick and fiery temperament flashing to meet the other's dignity
and apparent calm. And yet at no time had the barrier between them
been so insignificant, so slight. Beatrice advanced slowly from the
door, where she had first hesitated.
"May I speak with you, Mrs. Travers?" she asked.
Lois nodded, mechanically holding out her hand. Her eyes were riveted
on the other's grave face, drinking in with a real admiration a
loveliness from which the old marring lines of mockery and cynicism
had been swept away.
"Won't you sit down?" she said gently. "You look tired and pale."
Beatrice seemed not to hear. She took the outstretched hand between
both her own. Her head was a little bent, and as she looked full into
Lois' face her expression softened and saddened.
"You, too, are unhappy!" she said.
Lois made no answer. She was overwhelmed by the directness of the
statement, but still more by the change in Beatrice's voice. It
sounded low and unsteady, as though a storm of feeling lay close
beneath the surface. "Do you wonder how I know?" Beatrice went on,
after an instant's pause.
"I don't know," Lois answered, "and for the moment we won't talk about
such things. I can't bear to see you look so--so ill.
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