“Miss Lauderdale—will you think it very rude if I ask one question? I’ve—I’ve put my whole life into this—and you’re sending me away without a word. So perhaps—I think you might—”
“What is it?” asked Katharine, kindly.
“Are you engaged to Jack Ralston? I’ve heard people say that you were, so often. Would you tell me?”
Katharine was silent for a moment. She did not know exactly how far it would be true to say that she was engaged to John, seeing that she was married to him. Her marriage, she thought, might be looked upon as a formal betrothal, and there would have been little harm in taking that view of it, under such circumstances. But she had inherited from her father something of his formal respect for the mere letter of truth, and she did not like to say anything which did not conform to it.
“We’re not exactly engaged,” she answered, after a short pause. “But we care for each other very much.”
Wingfield’s brow cleared a little. He had one of those dispositions which hope in spite of apparent certainty against them.
“Then I’ll go away for awhile,” he said, with sudden resolution and considerable generosity, from his point of view. “If you don’t marry him, I’ll come back, that’s all. I’m glad you told me. Thank you.”
It requires considerable self-control to act as Archibald Wingfield did on that occasion. His voice did not tremble, and he did not turn pale, because it was not in his nature to experience that sort of physical weakness when he was making an effort. But what he did was not easy. Even Katharine could see that. He sat still a few moments after he had spoken, glanced at her once, as though to make sure that there was to be no appeal, and then rose suddenly from his seat, and stood towering above her.
“Good-bye,” he said, holding out his hand, and stooping to bring it within her reach. Now that the effort had been made, his voice trembled a little.
“Good-bye,” answered Katharine, taking his hand, and lifting her head almost without raising her eyes.