She came in a soft, white gown that clung to her virginal figure. The swelling-out period had passed, even sleeves had collapsed to a small puff, and for house wear the arms and neck were left bare.
The book was a Greek play. The letters danced before her eyes as she stood there. He looked off the book, but not up at her.
"Cousin Chilian, I want to tell you"—her voice had the peculiar softness that one uses to try to cover the hurt one cannot help giving—"Mr. Saltonstall was here last evening. He has asked me to marry him."
It seemed to her the silence lasted moments. Then he said in an incurious tone, "Well?"
"I—will you be angry or disappointed when I confess that I cannot, that I do not love him."
"Oh, Cynthia, child; what do you know about love?" he said impatiently.
"Enough to know that it would be wrong to take a man's love and give him nothing in return." Now her voice was steady, convincing.
He had a sudden thought. Like a vision the stalwart form of the young sailor rose before him. He had carried admiration, yes, love in his eyes. What if he had carried more than that away?
"Cynthia, is there some one else, some one you could love——"
"There is some one else." Her tone was very low, but brave. That admission would settle the matter.