She read the letter twice, and then sat for some
time considering the kind of letter Philip would have written had he
known her secret--had he known that the ring he had abandoned was now
upon her finger.
She rose and, crossing to a desk, placed the letter in a drawer, and
then took it out again and reread the last page. When she had finished
it she was smiling. For a moment she stood irresolute, and then,
moving slowly toward the centre-table, cast a guilty look about her
and, raising her hands, lifted her veil and half withdrew the pins
that fastened her hat.
"Philip," she began, in a frightened whisper, "I have--I have come
to--"
The sentence ended in a cry of protest, and she rushed across the room
as though she were running from herself. She was blushing violently.
"Never!" she cried, as she pulled open the door; "I could never do
it--never!"
The following afternoon, when Helen was to come to tea, Carroll
decided that he would receive her with all the old friendliness, but
that he must be careful to subdue all emotion.
He was really deeply hurt at her treatment, and had it not been that
she came on her own invitation he would not of his own accord have
sought to see her. In consequence, he rather welcomed than otherwise
the arrival of Marion Cavendish, who came a half-hour before Helen was
expected, and who followed a hasty knock with a precipitate entrance.
"Sit down," she commanded, breathlessly, "and listen. I've been at
rehearsal all day, or I'd have been here before you were awake.
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