"I'm not thinking of my own happiness, or I couldn't do it. No, I couldn't do it. I was thinking"--her voice sank and vibrated, and rose, exulting, to the stress--"of _his_." Frances looked at her with gentle, questioning eyes. Hugh's happiness, no doubt, was the thing; but she wondered how Gertrude's presence was to secure it. Slowly, bit by bit, with many meditative pauses, many sinkings of her thought into the depths, as if she sounded at each point her own sincerity, Gertrude made it out. "Mrs. Brodrick is very sweet and very charming, and I know they are devoted. Still"--Gertrude's pause was poignant--"still--she _is_ unusual." "Well, yes," said Frances. "And one sees that the situation is a little difficult." Frances made no attempt to deny it. "It always is," said Gertrude, "when the wife has an immense, absorbing interest apart. I can't help feeling that they've come, both of them, to a point--a turning point, where everything depends on saving her, as much as possible, all fret and worry. It's saving him. There are so many things she tries to do and can't do; and she puts them all on him." "She certainly does," said Frances. "If I'm there to do them, it will at least prevent this continual friction and strain." "But you, my dear--you?" "It doesn't matter about me." She was pensive over it. "If I solve his problem----" "It will be very hard for you." "I can bear anything if he's happy." Frances smiled sadly. She had had worse things than that to bear. "Of course," she said, "if you know--if you're sure that you care--in that way----" "I didn't know until the other day, when I came back. It's only when you give up everything that you really know." Frances was silent. If any woman knew, she knew. She had given up her husband to another woman. For his happiness she had given the woman her own name and her own place, when she might have shamed her by refusing the divorce he asked for. "It wouldn't have been right for me to come back," said Gertrude, "if I hadn't been certain in my own heart that I can lift this feeling, and make it pure." Her voice thickened slightly. "It _is_ pure. I think it always was. Why should I be ashamed of it? If there's anything spiritual in me, it's _that_." Frances was not the woman to warn her of possible delusion; to hint at the risk run by the passion that disdains and disowns its kindred to the flesh. She raised her eyes of tragedy, tender with unfallen tears. "My dear," she said, "you're a very noble woman." Across the narrow heath-path, with a lifted head, with flame in her heart and in her eyes, Gertrude made her way to Brodrick's house.