"If I were," said Louise, "I'd never give him the satisfaction of knowing it."
Madame Claire called once more on the deity who understands women.
"And yet, Louise," she said, with all her courage, "you love him. You love Eric. I know you do. Some day you may find out how much, and it may be too late. That will be the tragedy. You'll know that you had only to reach out your hand—you're like a child, you know. Have you ever seen a child while playing with other children, receive some fancied slight, and withdraw, hurt? I have. The other children don't even know what the trouble is, and they go on with their game. The hurt child stands apart, lonely and miserable. They call her presently to come and join them, and she longs to go, but can't—can't! Something won't let her. Oh, I know, I know! I must have been that child once. I know what she feels. She stands there kicking at a stone, longing, yes, longing to go out into the sunshine again and play. She knows that game better than they do. They even call to her to come and lead them. But she can't. She sulks. She doesn't want to sulk. She suffers. And then the nurse comes, and the play is over, and she is taken off to bed. It is too late. It is finished. . . .