“Yes,” she answered after a moment, “but it cannot be with you, my friend.”
She withdrew her fingers and stepped back; she made a gesture of friendly repulsion. “You have said all that can be said, you have gifts greater than you yourself believe; and I have been tempted; but it is no use, there are deeper things than luxuries and the magazines of merchandise—much deeper. No, no, I cannot marry you; if you were as rich as Midas, as powerful as Caesar, I would not marry you—never, never, never.”
“You love another,” he said boldly. “You love Carnac Grier.”
“I do not love you—isn’t that enough?”
“Almost—almost enough,” he said, embarrassed.
CHAPTER XXXI. THIS WAY HOME
All Junia had ever felt of the soul of things was upon her as she arranged flowers and listened to the church bells ringing.
“They seem to be always ringing,” she said to herself, as she lightly touched the roses. “It must be a Saint’s Day—where’s Denzil? Ah, there he is in the garden! I’ll ask him.”
Truth is, she was deceiving herself. She wanted to talk with Denzil about all that had happened of late, and he seemed, somehow, to avoid her. Perhaps he feared she had given her promise to Tarboe who had, as Denzil knew, spent an hour with her the night before. As this came to Denzil’s brain, he felt a shiver go through him. Just then he heard Junia’s footsteps, and saw her coming towards him.