"No, but he—he showed me the ring he has got for her."
"Yes, I saw it, too. I think that the girl who marries Oliver," the mother went on, pitifully conscious of the futility of searching for the most painless words, "will be very, very happy."
Grisel nodded without speaking.
"You see, in Paris, and travelling with him, I—I have got to know him so well. He—he is a splendid fellow, Grisel, under all his nonsense."
"I know, mother," the girl's voice was very low, and very gentle.
After a moment Mrs. Walbridge went on, going to the back of her daughter's chair, and stroking her little head with smooth, regular movements.
"Sometimes I have wished, dear, that you—that you could have cared for him."
"I!" The girl broke away from her gentle hand and faced her. "What if I had cared for him? Thank God I didn't; but what if I had? A splendid kind of love that was to trust—would have been—I mean. Why it was only a week after—after that time in the drawing-room when he looked so awful—not a week after that, that he was engaged to this beast of a Perkins girl. I—I hate him," she cried, suddenly breaking down with an unreserved voice that at once frightened and relieved her mother.
Kneeling by the window she cried, cried as her mother knew she had not done for years, her little shoulders shaking, her forehead on the window sill.
"Hush, dear, you must not cry. Better wash your face and sniff some camphor. Remember John will be wanting to see you in a few minutes."