“It may be easier,” I admitted, admiring inwardly the directness and the
subtlety of the girl’s outlook. She was dealing with life as it was
made for her by the political conditions of her country. She faced cruel
realities, not morbid imaginings of her own making. I could not defend
myself from a certain feeling of respect when she added simply--
“Time they say can soften every sort of bitterness. But I cannot believe
that it has any power over remorse. It is better that mother should
think some person guilty of Victor’s death, than that she should connect
it with a weakness of her son or a shortcoming of her own.”
“But you, yourself, don’t suppose that....” I began.
She compressed her lips and shook her head. She harboured no evil
thoughts against any one, she declared--and perhaps nothing that
happened was unnecessary. On these words, pronounced low and sounding
mysterious in the half obscurity of the ante-room, we parted with an
expressive and warm handshake. The grip of her strong, shapely hand had
a seductive frankness, a sort of exquisite virility. I do not know why
she should have felt so friendly to me. It may be that she thought I
understood her much better than I was able to do. The most precise
of her sayings seemed always to me to have enigmatical prolongations
vanishing somewhere beyond my reach. I am reduced to suppose that she
appreciated my attention and my silence. The attention she could see was
quite sincere, so that the silence could not be suspected of coldness.
It seemed to satisfy her. And it is to be noted that if she confided
in me it was clearly not with the expectation of receiving advice, for
which, indeed she never asked.