'Yes—to keep him in his place. Who would ever believe in him?' Miss Susan wearily wondered. 'If it wasn't for you and for me———'
'Not doubting of each other?'—her companion took her up: 'yes, there wouldn't be a creature. It's lucky for us,' said Miss Amy, 'that we don't doubt.'
'Oh, if we did we shouldn't be sorry.'
'No—except, selfishly, for ourselves. I am, I assure you, for myself—it has made me older. But, luckily, at any rate, we trust each other.'
'We do,' said Miss Susan.
'We do,' Miss Amy repeated—they lingered a little on that. 'But except making one feel older, what has it done for one?'
'There it is!'
'And though we've kept him in his place,' Miss Amy continued, 'he has also kept us in ours. We've lived with it,' she declared in melancholy justice. 'And we wondered at first if we could!' she ironically added. 'Well, isn't just what we feel now that we can't any longer?'
'No—it must stop. And I've my idea,' said Susan Frush.
'Oh, I assure you I've mine!' her cousin responded.
'Then if you want to act, don't mind me.'
'Because you certainly won't me? No, I suppose not. Well!' Amy sighed, as if, merely from this, relief had at last come. Her comrade echoed it; they remained side by side; and nothing could have had more oddity than what was assumed alike in what they had said and in what they still kept back. There would have been this at least in their favour for a questioner of their case, that each, charged dejectedly with her own experience, took, on the part of the other, the extraordinary—the ineffable, in fact—all for granted. They never named it again as indeed it was not easy to name; the whole matter shrouded itself in personal discriminations and privacies; the comparison of notes had become a thing
