"And I am to understand that you have a secret—and that I am not to be told!"
"You may understand anything that you choose. It is a matter of indifference. Only, be so good as to leave me alone."
Cyril walked across the room, and opened the door.
Sybella had no choice but to go. She complained and protested; but still she went.
Cyril locked and double-locked the door in her rear. Then he returned to his former station, close beside the fire.
He stood there, fidgeting a little box of wax matches, striking one after another with delicate accurate fingers. Not one was bent or broken. He watched each in turn, burning itself out, as if his whole soul were intent on the process of combustion.
Why should he read Emmie's note at once? There was no hurry. Suspense might be bad; but certainty would, in all likelihood, be worse. He had a gleam of hope now; and that little childish note might slay all hope in him for evermore. He could think of Jean now as not impossibly to be his some day; but after reading Emmie's answer, he might be debarred from any such dream.
In a few minutes, all would probably be over—all hope of Jean! All free thought of Jean!
"I mean to marry Jean some day," he had said at ten years old and had meant it ever since—till the doubts and hesitations of the last few months. And now, by a hasty boyish impulse, he had flung that hope out of his own reach—perhaps! There was a "perhaps" still, though a very faint one.
Why should Emmie refuse him? He knew himself to be liked by her; and doubtless her parents would appreciate the advantages, which she might be too young to weigh . . . And if Emmie said "Yes," he would be bound. He would have in honour to go on. In her position, especially, having once sought her, how could he ever cast her off? Nay, if he could, what use? Jean would never have him afterwards.