“And you addressed the letter to Temple?” asked Ralph Webster, in a low, concentrated voice.
“Yes, my dear, I did. I addressed it to him at Woodlea Hall, and May went out and posted it herself—and—and, Ralph, I have considered it over, and I thought it best to tell you.”
Again Ralph Webster nodded his head.
“I understand,” he said, briefly.
“You see you have been a good deal thrown with her,” went on Miss Webster, apologetically, “and May is such a pretty girl—”
“You thought I might lose my heart to someone engaged to another man, eh, Aunt Margaret?” interrupted Ralph Webster, as his aunt paused, but though his lips smiled, there was a ring of pain in his voice. “Well, Aunt Margaret, perhaps I am safer away—thank you for the hint.”
“Good-night, my dear,” said Miss Webster, rising, and gently kissing his brow. But though she listened and waited long to hear the sound of Ralph’s footsteps also going to his room, she did not hear them. For it was morning, and Miss Webster was sleeping her placid sleep, when a pale, haggard-faced man stole quietly up the staircase, afraid to awaken the other inmates of the house.
Yet later in the day Ralph Webster went down to breakfast with no sign of any inward conflict on his resolute face. Perhaps he was a shade paler than usual, but that was all. His manner at least showed nothing. He talked in the same fashion to May as he had talked the night before, and to his aunts. But just when breakfast was over, he made a little announcement.
“Do you know, I am obliged to tear myself away to-day from your pleasant society,” he said, without addressing anyone in particular; “Bedford, a friend of mine, is starting to-day for a fortnight’s trip to Switzerland, and I proposed to go with him; I can not very well get off.”
“It will be a pleasant change, my dear,” said Aunt Margaret, in a faltering voice.