But drain the dregs, turn down the glass, and
say that it is good. No, God forbid!" she cried, passionately.
"There are good loves. You should find no masquerade, but one fair
and shining."
Frona was up to her old trick,--their common one,--and her hand slid
down Lucile's arm till hand clasped in hand. "You say things which I
feel are wrong, yet may not answer. I can, but how dare I? I dare
not put mere thoughts against your facts. I, who have lived so
little, cannot in theory give the lie to you who have lived so
much--"
"'For he who lives more lives than one, more lives than one must
die.'"
From out of her pain, Lucile spoke the words of her pain, and Frona,
throwing arms about her, sobbed on her breast in understanding. As
for Lucile, the slight nervous ingathering of the brows above her
eyes smoothed out, and she pressed the kiss of motherhood, lightly
and secretly, on the other's hair. For a space,--then the brows
ingathered, the lips drew firm, and she put Frona from her.
"You are going to marry Gregory St. Vincent?"
Frona was startled. It was only a fortnight old, and not a word had
been breathed. "How do you know?"
"You have answered." Lucile watched Frona's open face and the bold
running advertisement, and felt as the skilled fencer who fronts a
tyro, weak of wrist, each opening naked to his hand.
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