Clover crimsoned to her throat. She did not wish to see the letter. She suddenly feared it. What trick had been played upon her? Could Mildred— Oh, impossible!
Gorham unfolded the sheet before her reluctant gaze. Then with sudden haste she took it from him, opened it, and read the closing lines. Her breath came freer.
"Oh yes," she said, smiling in her relief. "I wrote that."
Gorham unconsciously received the paper into his hand. He was scrutinizing her face. "What did you mean by those words?" he asked.
"Why, nothing," she answered, surprised and affected by his agitation,—"nothing except what I said. Let me read it."
"Those last words," said Page briefly, indicating them.
Clover read obediently aloud.
"I wonder—you always seem so sufficient unto yourself, so much more a man of intellect than of heart—I wonder if you ever feel, as I do more and more strongly every day, our—dependence." The voice gradually lowered, then paused; Clover cast one beseeching, troubled glance up into her companion's face. It was as pale as hers was glowing.
"We always have been so impersonal. Of course I meant people in general," she finished, low and quickly.
Page gave her a sad smile. "We have theorized and speculated together a great deal, I know. So this was only one more speculation, was it?"