Carroll raised one of her hands and kissed the tips of her fingers
gently. "I owe it to you, Marion," he said--"all to you."
This was the tableau that was presented through the open door to Miss
Helen Cabot, hurrying on her errand of restitution and goodwill, and
with Philip's ring and watch clasped in her hand. They had not heard
her, nor did they see her at the door, so she drew back quickly and
ran along the passage and down the stairs into the street.
She did not need now to analyze her feelings. They were only too
evident. For she could translate what she had just seen as meaning
only one thing--that she had considered Philip's love so lightly that
she had not felt it passing away from her until her neglect had killed
it--until it was too late. And now that it was too late she felt that
without it her life could not go on. She tried to assure herself that
only the fact that she had lost it made it seem invaluable, but this
thought did not comfort her--she was not deceived by it, she knew that
at last she cared for him deeply and entirely. In her distress she
blamed herself bitterly, but she also blamed Philip no less bitterly
for having failed to wait for her. "He might have known that I must
love him in time," she repeated to herself again and again. She was so
unhappy that her letter congratulating Philip on his good fortune in
having his comedy accepted seemed to him cold and unfeeling, and as
his success meant for him only what it meant to her, he was hurt and
grievously disappointed.
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