be worshipped—!” She went off into a shrill, wild laughter, covering her face with her hands, and laughing shrilly, her laughter punctuated by hollow, ghastly sobs.
Kate sat in absolute dismay, waiting for the other woman to recover herself. She felt cold against these hysterics, and exerted all her heavy female will to stop them.
“After all,” she said, when Doña Carlota became quiet, her face in her hands, “it isn’t your fault. We can’t be responsible, even for our husbands. I know that, since my husband died, and I couldn’t prevent him dying. And then—then I learned that no matter how you love another person, you can’t really do anything, you are helpless when it comes to the last things. You have to leave them to themselves, when they want to die: or when they want to do things that seem foolish, so, so foolish, to a woman.”
Doña Carlota looked up at the other woman.
“You loved your husband very much—and he died?” she said softly.
“I did love him. And I shall never, never love another man. I couldn’t. I’ve lost the power.”
“And why did he die?”
“Ah, even that was really his own fault. He broke his own soul and spirit, in those Irish politics. I knew it was wrong. What does Ireland matter, what does nationalism and all that rubbish matter, really! And revolutions! They are so, so stupid and vieux jeu. Ah! It would have been so much better if Joachim had been content to live his life in peace, with me. It could be so jolly, so lovely. And I tried and tried and tried with him. But it was no good. He wanted to kill himself with that beastly Irish business, and I