He might have been talking to an empty room.
"You've been so much like a sister to me," he ventured again, "that I didn't stop to think; and only—only acted on the very same impulse I would if you actually were my sister!" (Oh, Brent, you unconscionable liar!)
Still there was silence.
"Let's count," he suggested. "It won't be talking, and, at least, will deceive the table."
Silence.
"We might say the Lord's Prayer! That's certainly proper, and you can leave out 'as we forgive others.'"
In spite of herself the faintest shadow of a smile touched her lips, but their silence was absolute.
"Or we might try Mother Goose," again came the pleading voice. "We needn't speak after tonight—rather after this dinner. We can't, in fact, if I'm going home tomorrow! Shouldn't we make some effort to keep from spoiling the others' good time?"
Going home tomorrow? She had not heard of that! What would become of the railroad? What would become—but nothing mattered except the railroad! Was he acute enough to reason that he could move her by this threat, she wondered? And if he were, and if she yielded, would he not use it as a weapon for future forgivenesses, when he might again be taking her for his sister—something which he did not possess? This idea sealed her determination. Yet, on second thought she relented—oh, it could scarcely be called relenting—just a wee bit and, still looking steadfastly down at her plate, in a monotonous voice, said:
"Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard."