Jane stuck to her point. "You had Harry all your very own," she said. "There wasn’t anybody else. He liked me and Sidney, but there wasn’t really anybody else but you." It was by that unafraid directness, which was part of her nature, that she had made her way with Viola, where nobody else had gained any access to her tortured bewildered mind. She could say anything to her, because there was only truth and love behind her words. "I know," said Viola. "I’m very glad Sidney is going to be happy—as long as it lasts—but I don’t believe they can possibly love each other as much as Harry and I did. That’s what makes it so cruel that he was killed. There was never anybody like him. Why were we allowed to know each other and to love each other if it was just to be like that?" "That’s what I mean," said Jane. "You did love each other, and even if you’re awfully miserable now you’d rather be that than never have known Harry." "It doesn’t seem to matter much whether I’m miserable or not," Viola said. "Everybody who has said anything to me about it has seemed to think that’s the chief thing—that I shall get over it in time. What does it matter whether I get over it or not? It’s Harry’s being killed that matters." "I know," said Jane. "Older people don’t seem to understand, though they only mean to be kind. It’s all so different to what I’d ever thought it would be, if anything like that happened with somebody you loved very much. There’s part of you goes on doing the same things almost as if you’d forgotten, and even perhaps enjoying yourself sometimes; and there’s part of you that never forgets. Of course it isn’t the same for me as it is for you," she added on a note of humility, "but I know enough to understand." "Oh, my dear, I know how much you loved Harry. It’s what makes me love you. I think I love you better than anybody, just because of that. It all comes back to Harry, you see. Poor Lady Brent loved him, and I’m desperately sorry for her. Sometimes it seems as if I’m more sorry for her than I am for myself. It isn’t like being sorry for oneself; I don’t seem to count. But I’m sorry for her. She’s old, but she isn’t hard, as many old people are. And there are so many other things than just Harry that she has lost." "What sort of things?" "Oh, everything that he was, or was going to be—everything she had thought about and looked forward to all the time he was growing up. I suppose they were all part of Harry to her; but they weren’t very much to me. I think I was even a little jealous of them. Once when we were at the log cabin, and talked about going away to a new country—you know, just as you used to talk, half in fun—I thought, oh, how I wish we could, and he would work for me and I would work for him. I wished he wasn’t Sir Harry Brent at all, with all that belonged to him, but just Harry, who only belonged to me."