Susan was supposed to know most, her proprietorship of David giving her
words the value of experience, but Lucy had most to say. Her tongue
loosened by the hour and a pair of listening ears, she revealed herself
as much preoccupied with all matters of sentiment, and it was only
natural that a love story of her own should be confessed. It was back
in Cooperstown, and he had been an apprentice of Glen's. She hadn't
cared for him at all, judging by excerpts from the scenes of his
courtship he had been treated with unmitigated harshness. But her
words and tones--still entirely scornful with half a continent between
her and the adorer--gave evidence of a regret, of self-accusing, uneasy
doubt, as of one who looks back on lost opportunities. The listener's
ear was caught by it, indicating a state of mind so different from her
own.
"Then you did like him?"
"I didn't like him at all. I couldn't bear him."
"But you seem sorry you didn't marry him."
"Well-- No, I'm not sorry. But"--it was the hour for truth, the still
indifference of the night made a lie seem too trivial for the effort of
telling--"I don't know out here in the wilds whether I'll ever get
anyone else.
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