"I don't think--I know!" Hilda spoke proudly, but with the restraint which absolute certainty permits. She crushed, rather than resented, George Cannon's easy insinuation, full of the unjustified superiority of the male. How could he judge--how could any man judge? She had never before felt so sure of herself, so adult and experienced, as she felt then.
"But it's nothing serious?" he suggested with deference.
"N--no--not what you'd call serious," said Hilda judicially, mysteriously.
"Because she wants to give up the boarding-house business altogether--that's all!"
Having delivered this dramatic blow, George Cannon smiled, as it were, quizzically. And Hilda was reassured about him. She had been thinking: "Is he ruined? If he is not ruined, what is the meaning of these puzzling changes here?" And she had remembered her shrewd mother's hints, and her own later fears, concerning the insecurity of his position: and had studied his tired and worn face for an equivocal sign. But this smile, self-confident and firm, was not the smile of a ruined man; and his flashing glance seemed to be an omen of definite success.
"Wants to give it up?" exclaimed Hilda.
He nodded.
"But why? I thought she was doing rather well."
"So she is."
"Then why?"