the second time even going so far as

So the weeks went by, and then the months. A year, two years. Desdemona, Ophelia, Portia, Cleopatra. From the very beginning she flattered herself she behaved outwardly as if nothing had happened to ruin her world; she took exquisite care in speaking, laughing, relating to people quite normally. If there was a change, it was in that she was kinder than of yore, for people's griefs tended to affect her as if they were her own. But, all told, she was the same outward Justine flippant, exuberant, brash, detached, acerbic. Twice she tried to go home to Drogheda on a visit, the second time even going so far as to pay for her plane ticket. Each time an enormously important last minute reason why she couldn't go cropped up, but she knew the real reason to be a combination of guilt and cowardice. She just wasn't able to nerve herself to confront her mother; to do so meant the whole sorry tale would come out, probably in the midst of a noisy storm of grief she had so far managed to avoid. The Drogheda people, especially her mother, must continue to go about secure in their conviction that Justine at any rate was all right, that Justine had survived it relatively unscathed. So, better to stay away from Drogheda. Much better. Meggie caught herself on a sigh, suppressed it. If her bones didn't ache so much she might have saddled a horse and ridden, but today the mere thought of it was painful. Some other time, when her arthritis didn't make its presence felt so cruelly. She heard a car, the thump of the brass ram's head on the front door, heard voices murmuring, her mother's tones, footsteps. Not Justine, so what did it matter? "Meggie," said Fee from the veranda entrance, "we have a visitor. Could you come inside, please?" The visitor was a distinguished-looking fellow in early middle age, though he might have been younger than he appeared. Very different from any man she had ever seen, except that he possessed the same sort of power and self-confidence Ralph used to have. Used to have. That most final of tenses, now truly final. "Meggie, this is Mr. Rainer Hartheim," said Fee, standing beside her chair. "Oh!" exclaimed Meggie involuntarily, very surprised at the look of the Rain who had figured so largely in Justine's letters from the old days. Then, remembering her manners, "Do sit down, Mr. Hartheim." He too was staring, startled. "You're not a bit like Justine!" he said rather blankly. "No, I'm not." She sat down facing him. "I'll leave you alone with Mr. Hartheim, Meggie, as he says he wants to see you privately. When you're ready for tea you might ring," Fee commanded, and departed. "You're Justine's German friend, of course," said Meggie, at a loss. He pulled out his cigarette case. "May I?" "Please do." "Would you care for one, Mrs. O'neill?"