She would wear it
bravely. It would rather become her.
Facing the mirror of the days to come, she tried it on. It was going to
hurt. There was no doubt of that. She saw the fatuous, approving face
of the eternal Mrs. Phillips, thrust ever between them, against the
background of that hideous furniture, of those bilious wall papers--the
loneliness that would ever walk with her, sit down beside her in the
crowded restaurant, steal up the staircase with her, creep step by step
with her from room to room--the ever unsatisfied yearning for a tender
word, a kindly touch. Yes, it was going to hurt.
Poor Robert! It would be hard on him, too. She could not help feeling
consolation in the thought that he also would be wearing that invisible
crown.
She must write to him. The sooner it was done, the better. Half a dozen
contradictory moods passed over her during the composing of that letter;
but to her they seemed but the unfolding of a single thought. On one
page it might have been his mother writing to him; an experienced,
sagacious lady; quite aware, in spite of her affection for him, of his
faults and weaknesses; solicitous that he should avoid the dangers of an
embarrassing entanglement; his happiness being the only consideration of
importance.
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