She composed herself as well as she could, though the nervous fit was still on her, while I read slowly, pausing between the sentences, each of the letters given in full in the earlier part of this chapter.
"Which of them do you imagine it will be?" she inquired, when I had finished.
"I must at least see them before I can answer that. The first one (the one signed 'Alice') is the brightest, and indicates a jolly nature that I would like to cultivate; but there is something in the other that I fancy, also. A sort of melody in a minor key. I shall not be content until I see the original."
Statia twisted the tassels on the arms of the chair she sat in.
"You are a hopeless scamp!" she said, reddening. "Why do you pretend to me that you have the least intention of doing any sensible work with the assistance of these women, or that you believe either what an honest girl should be?"
"Come, that's going too far!" I replied.
"No, it's not," she persisted, earnestly. "It is right that I should say these things to you. You are the most intimate friend of—my brother. You have no mother, no sister, no one to advise you. This plan, which you are entering upon with such a gay heart, may result in dragging you down to the depths, and perhaps your companion, if she be not already in that category. Don, if you ever cared for Tom—for any of us—stop this thing now!"
I was so astounded at the plainness of her insinuation that I could not reply for some moments. She sat opposite to me, her head thrown forward, her lips parted, her eyes slowly filling with tears.
"You had your chance," I responded, not very politely, it must be admitted. "If you had answered in the affirmative the question I asked you last week this could never have happened. Since you throw me back on myself, you have no right to prevent me going my own way."
She dropped her face in her open hands, to recover her equanimity. When she looked up again she appeared much calmer.