"He knew her so well," the young man continued slowly, "that—he asked her to marry him, and—she refused."
Barbara drew a long breath.
"Oh! Fancy Aunt Anne having a romantic story like that! I should like to write and ask her about it. But, of course, I can't; she might not like it." Then, turning quickly to the American, she added, "I suppose your uncle won't mind your having told me, will he?"
The young man flushed. "I hope not. He doesn't often speak of such things; and, though I knew there had been something of the kind, I didn't know her name. Of course——" He hesitated.
"Yes?" said Barbara.
"Of course, I know you will consider it a story to think about—and not to speak of. But I thought, as it was your aunt, it would interest you."
"It does. I'm very glad you told me, because it makes me understand Aunt Anne better, I think. Poor Aunt Anne! Although, perhaps, you think your uncle is the one to be sorriest for."
"I am going to join him in Paris to-morrow," he replied a little irrelevantly.
"To Paris! To-morrow!" echoed Barbara, the thought of Alice rushing into her mind. "Oh, I wonder—it would be much better—I wonder if you could do me a favour? It would be such a relief to tell an English person about it."
"An American," he corrected. "But perhaps that would do as well. I hope it is not another runaway bicycle?"