“They don’t mean to be. They are simply untouched by a love they don’t return.” She added thoughtfully: “And inclined to despise the lover.”
“That’s it,” he mourned. “She despises me.” And in a louder voice he demanded, not of Rose Mallett, but of the mysterious world in which he gropingly existed, “Why should she?”
“She shouldn’t, but perhaps you yourself are making a mistake.”
She heard indistinctly the word, “Impossible.”
“You can’t be sure.”
“I’m quite certain about that—about nothing else.” His big hands moved. “I cling to that.”
“Then you must be ready to serve her. Charles, if I ever needed you—”
“I’d do anything for you because you’re her aunt. And besides,” he said simply, “you’re rather like her in the face.”
“Thank you, but it’s her you may have to serve—and not me. I want her to be happy. I don’t know where her happiness is, but I know where it is not. Some day I may tell you.” She looked at him. He might be useful as an ally; she was sure he could be trusted. “Promise you will do anything I ask for her sake.”
He turned the head which had been sunk on his crumpled shirt. “Is anything the matter?” he asked, concerned, and more alert than she had ever seen him.