At the dinner-table Odd knew that Hilda had only him to thank for the thorough “heckling” she received at the hands of both her parents. Her silence, with its element of vacant dulness, now admitted many interpretations. It hedged round a secret unknown to either father or mother. Unknown to Katherine? Her grave air of aloofness might imply as much, or might mean only a natural disapproval of the scolding process carried on before her lover, a loyalty to Hilda that would ask no question and make no reproach.
“Any one would tell you, Hilda, that it is positively not decent in Paris for a young girl to be out alone after dusk,” said the Captain. “Odd will tell you so; he was speaking about it only this evening. You must come home earlier; I insist upon it.”
Odd sat opposite to her, and Hilda raised her eyes and met his.
He smiled gravely at her, and shook his head.
“Naughty little Hilda!” but his voice expressed all the tender sympathy the very sight of her roused in him, and Hilda smiled back faintly.
CHAPTER III
PETER brought Katherine the engagement ring a few days afterward. The drifting had ceased abruptly, and he felt the new sense of reality as most salutary. His personality and hers now filled the horizon; their relations demanded a healthy condensation of thoughts before expanded in wandering infinity, and he was thankful for the consciousness of definite duty and responsibility that made past years seem the refinement of egotism.
Katherine looked almost roguishly gay that afternoon, and, even after the ring was exclaimed over, put on, and Peter duly kissed for it, he felt that there was still an expression of happy knowingness not yet accounted for.
“The ring wasn’t a surprise, but you have one for me, Katherine.”
Katherine laughed out at his acuteness.