"Oh, don't let's talk about it!" she exclaimed. "I can't bear to think of it, and I feel as if I should never get it out of my head!"
Stanford was silent a moment, pulling his mustache as if trying to find the right word.
"It must have been awful," he said hesitatingly; "and I'll never speak of it again if you don't wish. Only I must say that it was dreadful to me too. The thought of how near I came to losing you is more than I can stand."
She leaned back in her chair, suddenly chilled, yet moved by the feeling in his voice. Her conscience reproached her that she had allowed a false hope to grow up in his mind. She felt as if he were establishing a claim upon her, and that at any cost she must make him see things as they were.
"You are very kind," she responded, trying to keep her tones from being too cold; "but of course we always feel a shock when any friend has been through a great danger."
Her eyes were cast down, but she could divine his regard of disquiet and surprise.
"And especially those we love," he added, leaning forward, and endeavoring to take her hand.
"Oh, of course, Mr. Stanford," she said hastily. "That is of course true. Were people in Boston much excited about the accident?"
She felt herself a hypocrite, yet she could not help this one more effort to avoid the explanation she dreaded.
"I suppose so. I don't know. I was so taken up with thinking about you, that I paid very little attention to anything else."