"You are talking nonsense," said Caroline, in her calmest way; "the children love you more and more every day."
Camilla smiled, frowned, and sighed.
"Well, it may be so; at all events, I don't mind Rupert, or you, or Agnes. It would have killed me if the old man had taken them, and turned them against me, as he certainly would have done. Oh, Caroline, that reminds me; has Betty chosen something for Violet Lancing's girl? If not, let her send this bangle. I mean to be kind to that girl for Horace's sake."
A moment or two later Camilla said with a laugh—
"I wonder if Rupert will send me a Christmas present.... I suppose I must not expect it."
But she got one—a very lovely and unique necklace, composed of pieces of jade strung on a fine chain, alternated with emeralds.
Caroline's gift was a writing-table, and when the heavily laden post-bag was opened on Christmas morning there was a letter also.
She kept it for several hours unopened, and then stole out into the cold garden to read it. It was not very long. He had the trick of going straight to the point. But it was a letter that moved her deeply—that made her heart beat and her eyes dim. He called her "dearest," and once he wrote "dear capricious Caroline."
He did not claim her boldly this time, nor did he plead too much. There was a directness in his simplicity that almost made her waver. But she delayed answering till the morrow; and all that evening, as she felt the old irresistible fascination of Camilla's beautiful presence hold her in sway, she felt equally her heart grow steady and that strange rush of joy die down.
"It is impossible ... impossible," she said to herself; and though she put her words as gently as she knew how, she wrote and for a second time refused to be his wife.