“I am sure she is the happier for having you, then,” said Philip. “You must be better than a whole menagerie of pets to her. And you look well. You are benefiting by the change.”
Artificial conversation of this sort went on a little while, till Lucy, determined to put an end to it, exclaimed, with a good imitation of annoyance, that she had forgotten something, and was quickly out of the room.
In a moment Maggie and Philip leaned forward, and the hands were clasped again, with a look of sad contentment, like that of friends who meet in the memory of recent sorrow.
“I told my brother I wished to see you, Philip; I asked him to release me from my promise, and he consented.”
Maggie, in her impulsiveness, wanted Philip to know at once the position they must hold toward each other; but she checked herself. The things that had happened since he had spoken of his love for her were so painful that she shrank from being the first to allude to them. It seemed almost like an injury toward Philip even to mention her brother,—her brother, who had insulted him. But he was thinking too entirely of her to be sensitive on any other point at that moment.
“Then we can at least be friends, Maggie? There is nothing to hinder that now?”
“Will not your father object?” said Maggie, withdrawing her hand.
“I should not give you up on any ground but your own wish, Maggie,” said Philip, colouring. “There are points on which I should always resist my father, as I used to tell you. That is one.”
“Then there is nothing to hinder our being friends, Philip,—seeing each other and talking to each other while I am here; I shall soon go away again. I mean to go very soon, to a new situation.”
“Is that inevitable, Maggie?”