“I ought to change my mind. Oh, George, I’ve no right—”
“That is settled,” he interrupted decisively. “What have you done that is so dreadful?”
She produced a waist of dove-colored silk.
“Of course I could n’t be married in black, you know, and this was to be my dress. See here.”
The front of the waist was cut and slashed from top to bottom.
“I must have done it some time to-day. Oh, George, it’s dreadful!”
For the first time in all the long, hard trial of their protracted engagement, she broke down and cried bitterly. He took her in his arms and soothed her. He told her he knew all about it, and that she was going to be entirely well; that he asked only that she would not worry, but would trust to him that she would come safely and happily out of all this trouble and mystery. She yielded to his persuasions, and, indeed, it was evident that she had hardly strength to resist him even had she not believed. She rested quietly on his shoulder and let him drift into a description of the route he had laid out, and in her interest she seemed to forget her trouble.
Before he left, she asked him what she could tell the dressmaker, who would suspect if she was given no reason for being called upon to make a new waist. He took the injured garment, went to the writing-table, and splashed ink on the cut portions.
“You showed it to me,” he said gayly, “and I was so incredibly clumsy as to spill ink on it. Men are so stupid.”