I was still standing there, with the soft, pretty folds crushed up in my hand, when the door opened suddenly and Trayton Harrod stood on the threshold. I had no time to put the shawl away; I remained there with it in my hand—awkwardly. And he did not say a word to help me out of the difficult position; he only looked at me in a morose sort of fashion. I was obliged to make the best of it.
"I beg your pardon," I stammered; "but Joyce said—that is to say—" I stopped, blushing furiously. I had meant to be quite frank, and to confess that I had overheard the conversation, but my courage failed in his sight.
He did not speak, and I felt very foolish. Why did he stand there, silent, with that frown upon his wide brow, that frown that never used to be there!
"It's a very beautiful shawl," I said, timidly, "and it would look lovely, I am sure, upon some grand lady who drives in her own carriage."
"Yes," said he, speaking at last; "things aren't pretty if they don't suit."
"Well, of course, finery is not in our line; at least not in—in my line," I stammered.
I added the last words so low that I don't think he heard them. He almost snatched it out of my hand.
"No, thank Heaven, it's not," he answered. "So we'll say no more about it."
But when he took it from me, there came over me a wild, foolish longing to have the thing. What at another time I should have laughed at possessing, I wanted now more than all the books that I had envied, more than any other gift in the world. And it belonged to me; he meant it for me, it was mine and I would not part with it.
"Oh, please, please, Mr. Harrod," I cried, "don't misunderstand me. I am very much obliged to you for having thought of my birthday. I like it very much indeed. I—thank you with all my heart."