"Rosalie, I am going to write to you," said he suddenly; "you will answer?"
"Yes," she told him simply. His heart quickened, but faltered, and was lost. "I had a long letter from Elsie Banks to-day," she went on with an indifference that chilled.
"Oh," he said; "she is your friend who was or is to marry Tom Reddon, I believe. I knew him at Harvard. Tell me, are they married?"
"No. It was not to take place until March, but now she writes that her mother is ill and must go to California for several months. Mr. Reddon wants to be married at once, or before they go West, at least; but she says she cannot consent while her mother requires so much of her. I don't know how it will end, but I presume they will be married and all go to California. That seems the simple and just way, doesn't it?"
"Any way seems just, I'd say," he said. "They love one another, so what's the odds? Do you know Reddon well?"
"I have seen him many times," she replied with apparent evasiveness.
"He is a—" but here he stopped as if paralysis had seized him suddenly. The truth shot into his brain like a deadly bolt. Everything was as plain as day to him now. She stooped to pick up a slim, broken reed that crossed her path, and her face was averted. "God!" was the cry that almost escaped his lips. "She loves Reddon, and he is going to marry her best friend!" Cold perspiration started from every pore in his body. He had met the doom of love—the end of hope.
"He has always loved her," said Rosalie so calmly that he was shocked by her courage. "I hope she will not ask him to wait."
Rosalie never understood why Bonner looked at her in amazement and said:
"By Jove, you are a—a marvel, Rosalie!"