Unhesitatingly, without shyness, Pauline, radiant-faced, whispered, “I love you, dear,” and the vibrant tones filled the simple words to the brim of assurance.
Though it seemed to them but a moment, it was some time later that Mrs. MacDonald’s tap sounded on the door.
“Come,” cried Pauline, springing away from Stone’s side, while he sauntered to the window. “Oh, Mrs. MacDonald, you must know it at once! Mr. Stone is my fiancé!”
Mrs. Mac was duly surprised and delighted, and, after congratulations, sent Stone away to dress for dinner, and endeavored to calm down her emotional charge.
Later that evening, Stone and Pauline sat in the hall watching the people. Almost as much alone as on a desert island, they conversed in low tones, and Stone, between expressions of adoration, told her of his theory of the beauty charm.
With paling face, Pauline listened. “Who?” she whispered. “Who? Do you suspect anybody?”
“You don’t know of your aunt ever having consulted any beauty doctor or any such person?”
“Oh, no! I’m sure she never did. Never!”
“And you don’t know of any one who would give her poison, under pretense of its being a charm or beautifier?”
“Oh, don’t! Don’t ask me!” and, with a face white as ashes, Pauline rose from her chair. “You must excuse me, Mr. Stone. I am ill,—I don’t feel well—. Really I must beg to be excused.”