"I'm glad of that," said Gertrude quickly, "for now I can see that my father is not the man to make any woman happy. I always thought that he was a kindhearted, harmless man, a trifle frivolous, perhaps, but quite honest. Now I understand that I have been deceived--in more ways than one," she added half to herself, and I could not understand what she meant. I did later.
"Do you blame me, Gertrude?" I asked, rising to take her hand.
"Of course she doesn't," said Mabel very rapidly; "you made a promise on certain conditions to keep quiet for an agreed time, and you have done so. No blame can possibly attach itself to you."
"Gertrude?" I said anxiously, taking no notice of Mabel's defence.
She pressed my hand. "I wish you could have told me," she said, in a low voice, "but my father was too clever for you. I understand."
"And you forgive me?" I pleaded.
"There is nothing to forgive."
"Of course there isn't," cried Mabel, kissing Gertrude again, "and don't let this make any difference to our friendship, dear. You will marry Cyrus and I shall marry Dicky--if he goes down on his knees to apologize for daring to ask me again--and everything will be well. But when I meet your father," ended Mabel wrathfully, "I shall speak my mind."
"I don't think that you will see him again," said Gertrude quietly. "He has gone to America, and went without a word of farewell or explanation to me. I think he will stop there. I see now that my affection was wasted on him, since he apparently cares for no one but himself."
"Never mind." Mabel caressed her. "You have Cyrus."