"Could you want such a man?" asked Grace Sheraton, bitterly. I saw Ellen
shake her head slowly. I heard her lips answer slowly. "No," she said.
"Could you?"
I looked to Grace Sheraton for her answer, and as I looked I saw a
strange and ghastly change come over her face. "My God!" she exclaimed,
reaching out a hand against a tree trunk to steady herself, "Your
leavings? No! But what is to become of me!"
"You wish him?" asked Ellen. "You are entirely free. But now, if you
please, I see no reason why I should trouble you both. Please, now, I
shall go."
But Grace Sheraton sprang to her side as she turned. I was amazed at her
look. It was entreaty on her face, not anger! She held out her hands to
Ellen, her face strangely distorted. And then I saw Ellen's face also
change. She put out her hand in turn.
"There," she said, "time mends very much. Let us hope--" Then I saw her
throat work oddly, and her words stop.
No man may know the speech with which women exchange thought. I saw the
two pass a few paces apart, saw Grace Sheraton stoop and whisper
something.
It was her last desperate resource, a hazard handsomely taken. It won,
as courage should, or at least as much as a lie may win at any time; for
it was a bitter, daring, desperate shaming lie she whispered to Ellen.
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