"Here are my notes
from the lecture. I read to the end of this page; you can make out the
rest for yourself. Well, Constance, have you anything to say?"
"Not unless you want to hear me," said Miss Field in her dignified
manner.
Maggie tried to stifle a yawn.
"Oh, my dear Connie, I'm always charmed, you know that."
"Well, I thought I'd like to tell you that I admired the way you spoke
last night."
"Were you present?"
"No, but some friends of mine were. They repeated the whole thing
verbatim."
"Oh, you heard it second-hand. Highly colored, no doubt, and not the
least like its poor original."
Maggie spoke with a kind of bitter, defiant sarcasm, and a delicate
color came into Miss Field's cheeks.
"At least, I heard enough to assure me that you spoke the truth and
concealed nothing," she said.
"It is the case that I spoke the truth, as far as it went; but it is
not the case that I concealed nothing."
"Well, Maggie, I have come to offer you my sincere sympathy."
"Thank you," said Maggie. She leaned back in her chair, folded her
hands and a tired look came over her expressive face. "The fact is,"
she said suddenly, "I am sick of the whole thing. I am sorry I went; I
made a public confession of my sorrow last night; now I wish to forget
it.
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