But one can feel a little Sorry for her. She
spoilt her own life, too."
"Did you know her, then?"
"Yes, I knew her. I think the only excuse to be made for her is that she
was very young when it all happened."
"I'm young," said Ann grimly, "but I hope I wouldn't be as mean as that."
"You?" Cara's eyes rested with a wistful kind of tenderness on the flushed
face against the pillows. "But, my dear, there's a world of difference
between you and the girl Eliot Coventry was in love with."
She got up and, moving across to the window, stood looking out. Below, the
pleasant, happy-go-lucky garden rambled desultorily away to the corner
where stood the ancient oak supporting Ann's hammock--a garden of odd,
unexpected nooks and lawns, with borders of old English flowers, without
definite form and looking as if it had grown of its own sweet will into its
present comeliness. But the garden conjured up before Cara's mental vision
was a very different one--a stately, formal garden entered through an arch
of jessamine, with a fountain playing in its centre, tinkling coolly into a
marble basin, and a high-backed, carved stone bench set beneath the shade
of scented trees.
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