My sister continued: “What did she die of? Heart failure?”
“Didn’t the milkman tell you that?” I inquired sarcastically.
Sarcasm is wasted on Caroline. She takes it seriously and answers accordingly.
“He didn’t know,” she explained.
After all, Caroline was bound to hear sooner or later. She might as well hear from me.
“She died of an overdose of veronal. She’s been taking it lately for sleeplessness. Must have taken too much.”
“Nonsense,” said Caroline immediately. “She took it on purpose. Don’t tell me!”
It is odd, when you have a secret belief of your own which you do not wish to acknowledge, the voicing of it by someone else will rouse you to a fury of denial. I burst immediately into indignant speech.
“There you go again,” I said. “Rushing along without rhyme or reason. Why on earth should Mrs. Ferrars wish to commit suicide? A widow, fairly young still, very well off, good health, and nothing to do but enjoy life. It’s absurd.”
“Not at all. Even you must have noticed how different she has been looking lately. It’s been coming on for the last six months. She’s looked positively hag-ridden. And you have just admitted that she hasn’t been able to sleep.”
“What is your diagnosis?” I demanded coldly. “An unfortunate love affair, I suppose?”
My sister shook her head. “ Remorse ,” she said, with great gusto.