She helped herself, and under the rattle of the spoon and fork, little Constance crunched again, very carefully.
“And what is the good of living in the past. That’s over, thank heaven.”
“I’m not living in the past any more. Betty, I’m—I’m—raising my head.”
Betty looked sharply up from the sweetbreads, and I flinched under her glance. She cast an eye on Judkins, who was receding into the pantry, waited till he was gone, then said, in an eager hushed voice:
“Evie, don’t tell me there’s some one?”
Never have I been more discomfited by the directness of my Betty. I felt myself growing red to my new rat and was painfully aware that little Constance, now crunching rapidly, had fixed upon me the deadly stare of an interested child.
“Of course there isn’t. What nonsense. But time has passed and one doesn’t stay broken-hearted forever. I’m not old exactly, and I’m—that is—it’s just as I said, I’m beginning to come alive again.”
“Oh!” Betty breathed out and leaned against her chair-back, with a slight creaking of tight drawn fabrics. But she kept her eye on me, in a sidelong glance, that contained an element of inspecting inquiry. Little Constance swallowed the cherry at a gulp and the question it had bottled up burst out:
“Evie, are you going to get married?”
“No,” I almost shouted.