I had another letter from Mr. Forsythe today. It was just a note inquiring for Mrs. Madden’s address. It makes me smile. Men aren’t so very sharp after all. As if I couldn’t see that the inquiry was only an excuse to write to me and a gentle reminder of the fact that I owe him a letter.
February 23.
Well, whom do you suppose was at the ball tonight? I was never so surprised in my life. It was a club dance and Mr. Forsythe was there. I did not know he was in the city. Oh, what a grand waltz we had! He said business had called him East and he thought he would stop at Detroit for a day before going on to New York.
Of course we know it was some one who wore a pink gown and has brown eyes, don’t we?
He is dear, he looked down into my eyes and said, “What beautiful unfathomed depths your soul has, though I can get but a peep at it through those eyes.”
I can’t help it, I like to hear him say those things, although I ought not to allow it and I know it. He is coming to call this afternoon.
February 25.
Well, he was here and Florence thought he was lovely. She came in for a few moments and then excused herself, so we had the time all to ourselves. I don’t know how I dared to do it, but it seemed as if something impelled me to, and I said, “Mr. Forsythe, I don’t believe you are as happy as you say you are. If you were you would not encourage yourself so much.”
He was silent what seemed to me an interminable length of time and I thought, “Now, my lady, you have spoiled your chances to do a good work, by a word inopportunely spoken.” But I was wrong. He came over to me and sat down beside me on the couch. He took my hand in his and said, “Miss Montgomery, you are right, but you are the only one who has discerned it, or at least the only one who has said so.”