Mrs. Kennedy had never experienced it; had never seen or heard of any authentic case of this beautiful tenderness, this undying devotion, this heavenly thing. Yet she firmly believed that it existed--this love which was not desire, not infatuation, not madness, not sentimentality, not friendship--this ecstasy which endured forever. Not experience, not common sense, nothing at all could have convinced her, for it was instinct that made her believe--nature’s most cruel and most necessary deception. For life to continue, it is necessary that women shall cling to two lies--that men are capable of truly loving them, and that their children will love them in their old age. "Deary," said Mrs. Kennedy, "I think you’d better write to him and tell him, and see what he will do for you. Perhaps he’ll marry you." "He is married," said Angelica indifferently. "Yes, mommer, I will write to him; but it’s an even chance if he’ll come or not. He’s queer. You can’t ever tell, with him. I’ll try, anyway, and see if I can’t get some money out of him." To her mother the tragedy was somewhat lessened by the fact that Angelica didn’t love Vincent. She fancied that the girl would consequently get over it better, not suffer so cruelly; but for Angelica there lay the worst of it, the most intolerable part to bear. It was that that made her frantic with shame and remorse. She looked in vain; she could find no trace of magnificence in her downfall. It wasn’t a splendid sin, done for reckless love. It was a damnable folly, committed through reckless ignorance. II She wrote to Vincent with a sort of naïve art. She wished to hide the least sign of anxiety or reproach; she wished him merely to think that she missed him. Why don’t you come? I have been looking for you for ever so long. Come in some evening soon. ANGELICA. The evening after the letter was mailed, she got up and dressed herself, trembling with weakness, hardly able to stand, but quite self-possessed. She didn’t feel the slightest emotion at the prospect of seeing Vincent again--nothing but a dogged resolution to make him give her money. She attempted no attitude, made no plan of what she would say to him, because she knew now how helpless she was in his hands. _He_ would direct the interview; _he_ would give the key-note; it would all depend upon his mood. She couldn’t influence him. She didn’t even take pains with her appearance, for she knew that it didn’t lie with her to move him. It depended upon the condition of his own mysterious soul. She had hardly expected him so soon. He came that same evening, but, from the very sound of his footsteps as he followed her along the hall to the tiny parlour, she could feel that he was sullen and reluctant, and her heart sank. "Oh, if only I didn’t have to bother with him!" she thought. "If only I didn’t have to see him ever again! And I’ve got to be nice to him and ask him for money!"