He paused, and I wondered why, especially of late, he had made sure that there was nothing in it.
"If your sister cares for Frank, I am very sorry," he went on, gently; "but I cannot but hope that you are mistaken."
"I am not mistaken," cried I, vehemently, starting to my feet.
He looked at me with a strange pity in his eyes.
"Well, then, I can only hope she will forget him," added he.
"Forget him!" cried I. "Do you think girls so easily forget the men they love?"
"I think it depends partly on the girl," said he, still with an unwonted gravity in his tone, "and partly on the kind of love."
The words stunned me for a moment; they seemed to be an echo of something in my own brain that kept resounding there and deafening me.
"I don't think that Joyce will ever forget Frank," repeated I, doggedly.