"Because he thinks he does."
"Very well, again; then why does he send you something that's worth so much more?"
Janet folded her arms in a triumph of silence. For a long time Sally could frame no reply. It had seemed, only an hour before, that she would have been so willing to seize at any straw which the tide of affairs should bring her, and now that the solid branch had floated to her reach, she could not find the confidence to throw her whole weight upon it. It was the letter that thwarted her; the letter that warned her from too great a hope.
"But read the letter," she said at last. "Read the letter again. Would he ever have written as abruptly as that if—if what you suggest is right? He might have asked me to—to think sometimes when I wore it—"
"Why? Is he a sentimentalist?"
"My goodness! No!"
"Well, then, he wouldn't. That's a stock phrase of the sentimentalist. The sentimentalist is always thinking, that's all he does, and he breaks his heart over it if other people don't act what he thinks."
"Well, he's not a sentimentalist, certainly."
She even smiled when she thought of his exclamations during the fight.
"What are you smiling at?" asked Janet, quickly. "Something he said?"