“Does it have to be good-by, Emily?” he asked wistfully. “Look here! Suppose I tell mother, and simply face the row? Suppose I write and explain to old Denis? Then why couldn’t you and I go on being friends?”
She shook her head.
“Nothing has to be explained to Denis,” she said. “I’ll just tell him, if he asks me; and—I’m sorry, Cecil, but it does have to be good-by. I wouldn’t make any trouble in the family for anything in the world!”
He submitted to her decision, as he was inclined to submit to anything definite, and off he went, with one last miserable look. Emily watched him with misty eyes.
“Poor Cecil!” she thought. “Poor fellow! But how terribly his mother must hate me, if it’s disloyal for him even to come to see me!”
Pain and dismay seized her at that thought. Ill will was a new thing in her life, something which she had never felt in her own heart or in the air about her. A most potent and subtle poison!
She waited for a letter from Denis with a new feeling of resentment. He ought to have written at once, to assure her that he only laughed at other people’s tales—or, better still, that he was angry. Much better if he would be angry. Emily found herself hoping for that with a bitter delight that half frightened her. She wanted that! She wanted her complete triumph, wanted to stand beside Denis while he humbled her enemies. It was an ignoble hope, she knew, and yet it was beyond measure precious to her.
On the third day his letter came, and she tore it open eagerly. It was unusually brief:
My dear Emily:
I think you had better go to mother’s hotel until I come back. It seems advisable to me for several reasons. Only time for these few lines, but I’ll write more fully later. Take care of yourself.