“Harry, dear,” she began, “I have something terrible to confess; but first let me ask you.... Last night, you know, when I saw you with Miss Dabney, and saw how pretty and sweet she is ... Harry, aren’t you the least bit in love with her?”
He tried to turn the question aside with a laugh.
“You wouldn’t ask that if you could see her sister next younger. Mysie is the raving beauty of the family.”
“No, but, really, Harry; I’m dreadfully in earnest. Wouldn’t you marry Jean Dabney if you were—if you were free?”
Again he evaded, rather clumsily—for him—this time.
“It wouldn’t rest with me, Eugie. Jean hasn’t the remotest idea of marrying anybody.”
The beauty beside him, statuesque no longer, but almost girlish in her confusion, sighed deeply.
“You are making it terribly hard for me, Harry, but I suppose I deserve every bit of it. I—I’ve been untrue to you and to our—to our engagement.”
It took every atom of his self-control to keep him from bounding to his feet. “Wha—what’s that?” he gasped.
“It’s your fault, in a way,” she pleaded defensively. “We might never have known anything about Mr. Drew if you hadn’t told him we were here in Denver.”