“One thing—I was not half good enough for you. As far as I can remember this is the first time I have ever humbled myself. You are a jolly little thing and deserve better luck.”
She made no reply.
“I shall cross almost immediately—shall give it out that you have refused me.”
“You need not. I have told no one but Augusta. People will think that we are merely good friends. We will treat each other in a frank off-hand manner when we meet out.”
“You are a game little thing! You’d make a good wife, a good fellow to chum with. I wish it could have come round our way.”
He was quick of instinct, and divined that she wanted to be alone.
“Au revoir,” he said. “We meet to-night at dinner, somewhere, don’t we?”
“At the Burr’s.” She rose and held out her hand. She was very pale, but quite composed, and her flower-like face had the dignity which self-respect so swiftly conceives and delivers. He had never been so near to loving her. She had bored him a good deal during the past weeks, but he suddenly saw possibilities in her. They were not great, but they would have meant something to him. He wanted to kiss her, but raised her hand to his lips instead, and went out.
Mabel waited until she heard the front door close, then ran up to her room and locked herself in.
“I mustn’t cry,” was her only thought for the moment.