Linda's voice,
continuing, broke into her thoughts.
"I suppose I shouldn't be croaking into your ear like a bird of ill
omen, when you have to throw yourself heart and soul into that concert
to-morrow," she said contritely. "I wonder why that Ancient Mariner way
of seeking relief from one's troubles by pouring them into another ear
is such a universal trait? You aren't vitally concerned, after all, and
I am. Let's have that tea, dear, and talk about less grievous things. I
still have one or two trifles to get in the shops too."
After they had finished the food that Stella ordered sent up, they went
out together. Later Stella saw her off on the train.
"Good-by, dear," Linda said from the coach window. "I'm just selfish
enough to wish you were going back with me; I wish you could sit with me
on the bank of the lake, aching and longing for your man up there in the
smoke as I ache and long for mine. Misery loves company."
Stella's eyes were clouded as the train pulled out. Something in Linda
Benton's parting words made her acutely lonely, dispirited, out of joint
with the world she was deliberately fashioning for herself. Into Linda's
life something big and elemental had come. The butterfly of yesterday
had become the strong man's mate of to-day. Linda's heart was
unequivocally up there in the smoke and flame with her man, fighting for
their mutual possessions, hoping with him, fearing for him, longing for
him, secure in the knowledge that if nothing else was left them, they
had each other.
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