"I got your letter," Molly says, awkwardly, when the silence has gone past bearing.
"I know."
"I did not answer it."
"I know that too," with some faint bitterness.
"It was too foolish a letter to answer," returns she, hastily, detecting the drop of acid in his tone. "And, even if I had written then, I should only have said some harsh things that might have hurt you. I think I was wise in keeping silence."
"You were. But I cannot see how you have followed up your wisdom by having me here to-day."
There is a little pause, and, then:
"I wanted so much to see you," murmurs she, in the softest, sweetest of voices.
He winces, and shifts his position uneasily, but steadily refuses to meet her beseeching eyes. He visits two more unhappy crocuses with capital punishment, and something that is almost a sigh escapes him; but he will not look up, and he will not trust himself to answer her.
"Have you grown cruel, Teddy?" goes on Molly, in a carefully modulated tone. "You are killing those poor crocuses that have done you no harm. And you are killing me too, and what harm have I done you? Just as I began to see some chance of happiness before us, you ran away (you a soldier, to show the white feather!), and thereby ruined all the enjoyment I might have known in my good fortune. Was that kind?"