“Tell me, Gertrude, how you know,” said Mrs. Percy-Bartlett gently, taking the girl’s cold hand in hers.
“It is hard to explain,” remarked Gertrude wearily. “I understand him so well, Harriet. He is very proud, and has such queer ideas! He—he—don’t think me awfully conceited, Harriet—he—I’m sure he likes me. But I never expect to see him again.”
There was the suspicion of a sob in her voice. Mrs. Percy-Bartlett gazed earnestly into her friend’s eyes.
“Tell me, Gertrude,” she said beseechingly, “what has happened. You are concealing something from me.”
“Nothing, truly,” exclaimed Gertrude, a frank smile on her lips. “There has been absolutely nothing between Mr. Fenton and myself that you do not know about, Harriet.”
“But why, my dear, do you say that you never expect to see him again? I can’t understand it.”
“I hardly know how to explain it to you, Harriet. I am not in the habit of placing too much confidence in intuition and inexplicable impressions, but I feel certain that he will never come to me again—unless I send for him.”
Mrs. Percy-Bartlett was silent for a time. Things seemed so fatally wrong in the world at that moment. She felt confused, discontented, wholly unfit to give comfort or advice to her unhappy friend. And yet why should she not urge her to take a step that might lead to happiness? Why should pride and precedent be permitted to stand between John Fenton and Gertrude Van Vleck when the very spirit of the age was teaching men and women to be broad-minded and reasonable, and, perhaps, more natural? Impulsively she turned to Gertrude and bent very close to her.
“My dear girl, you are doing him and yourself a great wrong. You should write to him and ask him to come to you. It is the only way.”
“And when he comes?” asked Gertrude in a whisper.