"You told us, once, that she wasn't a witch, but, by Jove, there's both witchery and healing in that smile of hers, Don. Look at Muriel now. It's nothing less than a miracle what the very presence of Rose has done for her."
"I was wrong," answered Donald, shortly, whereupon Ethel laid aside her book and joined in the conversation in a low voice, so that the absorbed Muriel might not hear.
"You love her, Don, it's perfectly obvious. What are you waiting for? Now that Marion has behaved so shamefully, it is my dearest hope that you will marry Rose. I didn't mean to speak of it; but, really, you are changing, Donald, and I don't want to think of your becoming a self-centred old bachelor."
"Ethel's right," supplemented his father. "I'm only surprised that you haven't asked her before. You've been in the same house with her for a whole week. Don't let one ... er ... unfortunate experience discourage you."
Donald carefully knocked the ashes from his pipe, got up, walked to the railing, and stood with his back toward them.
Then he laughed, a trifle bitterly.
"Thanks for the advice. I won't pretend that I don't ... care for her; but I can't ask her to marry me, as you suggest—that is, not now."
"Why not, I should like to know?" demanded his sister, impatiently.
"I can't explain, either; but there is a reason. I am bound in honor. Please don't say anything more about it."
But Ethel was not to be silenced so easily.