BEFORE A HICKORY FIRE
EVELYN’S thinking accomplished its purpose. At the end of it she understood herself, or thought she did. And when she returned to Wyanoke the next morning, she thought she knew precisely what she was going to say to Kilgariff. But who of us ever knows what we will say in converse that involves emotion? Who of us can know what response his utterance will draw forth from the other, or how far the original intent may be turned into another by that response?
At any rate, Evelyn knew that she intended to ask Colonel Kilgariff for an interview, and so far she carried out her purpose.
They were left alone in the great drawing-room at Wyanoke, where hickory logs were merrily blazing in the cavernous fireplace, quite as if there had been no war to desolate the land, and no man and woman there with matters of grave import to discuss.
Evelyn began the conference abruptly, as soon as Kilgariff entered and took a seat.
“I have heard,” she began, “of what you have done—of your great generosity toward me. Of course I cannot permit that. You must cancel those papers at once—to-day. I cannot sleep while they exist.”
“Who told you of the matter?” Kilgariff asked in reply.
“Edmonia, with Dorothy’s permission and Mrs. Pegram’s.”
“They should not have told you. I meant that you should not know till I am dead, unless—unless I should live longer than I expect, and you should fall into need when the war ends.”