Was there a ghost in the room? Primrose shivered as she looked at her bed with the white curtains and her dressing table that all the girls were trimming up now with ruffling and bows. She was so glad to hear the chaise stop and to have the warm, ample presence in the room, to hear the cheerful voice.
"Poor old Mr. Jeffries fails fast," said madam. "It would be a sin to win his money now. And I grew so dull and sleepy that I wished myself home twenty times. Suppose one had an old husband like that? And years ago, about fifteen, I think, Mr. Ralph Jeffries asked for my hand."
She laughed softly and began to take out her pins and stick them carefully in the cushion. Pins were very precious then.
There were two rainy days, an autumnal storm. Then Sunday. Allin Wharton looked at Primrose across the church and spoke coming out. There were laces to mend and gowns to consider and poor to visit. And all the time Primrose Henry was thinking if—if a man who was nobleness and goodness and tenderness itself, loved her, and would never love anyone else, what ought she to do?
Thursday noon Phil came in to dinner. Polly was not very well and he was going out at three. Wouldn't Primrose come with him?
Primrose colored and looked oddly embarrassed, and said, in a confused sort of way, there was something she must do this afternoon, but to-morrow she would come out and spend two or three days with Polly. She sent her best and dearest love.
Yes, she must know once for all. If duty was demanded of her—if she loved Andrew less, or more, when it came to that. What was this romance and mystery, and incomprehensible thrill! She did experience it for Allin, and alone by herself her face flushed and every pulse trembled. His foolish words were so sweet. His kisses—ah, had she any right to offer the cup of joy and delight to another when someone had drained the first sweetness?
But if Andrew loved her with the best and holiest love. Could she follow in her mother's steps? But her mother had singled Philemon Henry out of a world of lovers.