Mutely she handed the card to her hostess. Mrs. Walbrough smiled.
"He isn't as brave as you, my dear. Or else," she explained, "he'd have written, 'To a beautiful young lady.' Why," she cried, "that's what he started to write! Look! There's a blot, and it's scratched——"
Clancy's color was fiery.
"He wouldn't have!" she protested.
"Well, he didn't; but he wanted to," retorted Mrs. Walbrough.
Clancy gathered the roses in her arms. She could say nothing. Of course, it was absurd. Mrs. Walbrough had acquired a sudden and great fondness for her, and therefore was colored in her views. Still, there was the evidence. There is no letter "t" in brave, and undeniably there had been a "t" in the word that had preceded "young." She saw visions; she saw herself—she dismissed them. Mr. Philip Vandervent was a kindly, chivalrous young man and had done a thoughtful thing. That's all there was to it. She would be an idiot to read more into the incident. And yet, there had been a "t" in "brave" until he had scratched it out!
Her heart was singing as she left the Walbrough house. A score of Spoffords might have been lurking near and she would never have seen them.
Suddenly she thought of Randall. Why hadn't he thought of sending her roses? He had come back from Albany, cut short his trip to California to see her, to plead once more his cause. Her eyes hardened. He hadn't pleaded it very strongly. Suddenly she knew why she had been resentful yesterday—because she had sensed his refusal of her. Refusal! She offered to marry him, and—he'd said, "Wait."
But she could not keep her mind on him long enough to realize that she was unjust. The glamour of Vandervent overwhelmed her.
She walked slowly, and it was after nine when she arrived at Sally Henderson's office.