Aunt Selina held service that morning. Jim said that he always
had a prayer book, but that he couldn't find anything with so
many people in the house. So Aunt Selina read some religious
poetry out of the newspapers, and gave us a valuable talk on
Deception versus Honesty, with me as the illustration.
Almost everybody took a nap after luncheon. I stayed in the den
and read Ibsen, and felt very mournful. And after Hedda had shot
herself, I lay down on the divan and cried a little--over Hedda;
she was young and it was such a tragic ending--and then I fell
asleep.
When I wakened Mr. Harbison was standing by the table, and he
held my book in his hands. In view of the armed neutrality
between us, I expected to see him bow to me curtly, turn on his
heel and leave the room. Indeed, considering his state of mind
the night before, I should hardly have been surprised if he had
thrown Hedda at my head. (This is not a pun. I detest them.) But
instead, when he heard me move he glanced over at me and even
smiled a little.
"She wasn't worth it," he said, indicating the book.
"Worth what?"
"Your tears. You were crying over it, weren't you?"
"She was very unhappy," I asserted indifferently. "She was
married and she loved some one else."
"Do you really think she did?" he asked. "And even so, was that a
reason?"
"The other man cared for her; he may not have been able to help
it.
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