"Yes, you do. At least I think you do. Her name's—Margaret."
The play ceased abruptly. Guy's face changed. "Perhaps I do," he murmured, while his sister watched him in the candle-light.
"She won't answer yet?" she asked very gently.
"Not a word."
"You've cared a good while, haven't you, dear?"
"Seems like ages. Suppose it isn't."
"No—only two years, really caring hard. Plenty of time left."
He moved his head impatiently. "Yes, if I didn't mind seeing her smile on Tommy Gower—de'il take him—just as sweetly as she smiles on me. If she ever held out the tip of her finger to me, I'd seize it and hold on to it for fair. But she doesn't. She won't. And she's going South next week for the rest of the winter, and there's a fellow down there in South Carolina where she goes—oh, he—he's red-headed after her, like the rest of us. And, well—I'm up against it good and hard, Nan, and that's the truth."
