Milly braced herself--but conscious above all, at the moment, of a high
compassion for her mate. She made her out as struggling--struggling in
all her nature against the betrayal of pity, which in itself, given her
nature, could only be a torment. Milly gathered from the struggle how
much there was of the pity, and how therefore it was both in her
tenderness and in her conscience that Mrs. Stringham suffered.
Wonderful and beautiful it was that this impression instantly steadied
the girl. Ruefully asking herself on what basis of ease, with the drop
of their barrier, they were to find themselves together, she felt the
question met with a relief that was almost joy. The basis, the
inevitable basis, was that she was going to be sorry for Susie, who, to
all appearance, had been condemned in so much more uncomfortable a
manner to be sorry for _her_. Mrs. Stringham's sorrow would hurt Mrs.
Stringham, but how could her own ever hurt? She had, the poor girl, at
all events, on the spot, five minutes of exaltation in which she turned
the tables on her friend with a pass of the hand, a gesture of an
energy that made a wind in the air. "Kate knew," she asked, "that you
were full of Sir Luke Strett?"