“I knew you would be angry!” she said in a repentant tone.
“No,” George answered, “I am not angry. I am thinking.”
He was, indeed, wondering how much of the truth the girl knew, and he was distrustful enough to fancy that she might have some object in putting the question. But Mamie was not diplomatic like her mother. She was simple and natural in her thoughts, and unaffected in her manner. He glanced at her again and saw that she was troubled by her indiscretion.
“Did your mother never tell you anything about it all?” he asked after a long pause.
“No. I only heard what everybody heard—last May, when the thing was talked about. I wondered—that is all—I wondered whether you had cared very much—for her.”
Again there was a long silence, broken only by the even dipping of the oars and the soft swirl as they left the water.
“I did care,” George answered at last. “I loved her very dearly.”
He did not know why he made the confession. He had never said so much to any one except his own father. If he had guessed what Mamie felt for him, he would assuredly not have answered her question.
“Are you very unhappy, still?” asked the young girl in a dreamy voice.
“No. I do not think I am unhappy. I am different from what I was—that is all. I was at first,” he continued, without looking at his companion, of whose presence, indeed, he seemed scarcely conscious. “I was unhappy—yes, of course I was. I had loved her long. I had thought she would marry me. I found that she was indifferent. I shall never go and see her again. She does not exist for me any more—she is another person, whom I do not wish to know. I have loved and been disappointed, like many a better man, I suppose.”