‘We don’t know yet that there is anything to make a clean breast of,’ said Trix, beginning to cry. And she put on her bonnet in a disturbed way and went over to Grace for comfort, who might be supposed to want comfort more than she did. Grace was very pale, but composed, and met her friend with a smile. ‘I don’t know anything,’ she said, ‘but he asks me to wait, and I mean to wait. Why should we condemn him? There must be a reason, and when he can he will tell us. It is not out of mere wantonness he is staying away.’ They had all given up tacitly the pretence about the sick friend. That had been dismissed at a quite early date; the reality that was in it being beyond any guesses they could make. ‘Oh, Grace, you are the best of us all! You are the one that is the worst treated, and you are the most kind.’ ‘Trix, we don’t know that there is any ill-treatment at all,’ said Grace. She was very subdued, very pale. It almost overcame her composure altogether when a servant came in with a large packet, one of the many wedding presents that were arriving daily. ‘I have not the heart to open them,’ she said, leaning her head upon Trix’s shoulder, who flew to her with instant comprehension: ‘and yet I want to open them that nobody may suppose--Look,’ she said, pointing to a table covered with glittering spoils. ‘Look at all that, and the congratulations that come with them. And to think that I don’t know, I don’t know even--’ ‘Oh, Grace, all will be well, all will be well! long before that.’