Miss Bellairs was listening attentively.
“And,” continued Charlie, “she wrote and said it must be good-by and—and——”
“And you think she——?”
“She told me so,” whispered Charlie. “She said she couldn’t part without telling me. Oh, I say, Miss Bellairs, isn’t it all damnable? I beg your pardon.”
Dora was tracing little figures on the gravel with her parasol.
“Now what would you do?” cried Charlie. “She loves me, I know she does, and she’s going to marry this other fellow because she promised him first. I don’t suppose she knew what love was then.”
“Oh, I’m sure she didn’t,” exclaimed Dora earnestly.
“You can’t blame her, you know. And it’s absurd to—to—to—not to—well, to marry a fellow you don’t care for when you care for another fellow, you know!”
“Yes.”
“Of course you can hardly imagine yourself in that position, but suppose a man liked you and-and was placed like that, you know, what should you feel you ought to do?”