"The little orbit around which I take my flight could scarce interest you," lamely. "There were princes and dukes in your train, and great fêtes, and bewildering cities besides."
"It hurt," she said simply.
"Hurt? Have I hurt you?" the repressed tenderness in his voice shaking him. "Oh, if I had known that you really wanted to hear from me!"
"And why should I not? Were we not boy and girl together? And you always wrote such charming letters, cheerful and hopeful and sunshiny. There never was any worldliness, nor cynicism. I have kept all your letters; and even now I find myself returning to them, as one returns to old friends."
He clasped and unclasped his hands nervously.
"Cheerful and hopeful and sunshiny," she went on. "The man I love is like that. He is good and cheerful and brave. Nobody ever hears him complain. But he is poor, John, dreadfully poor; and what makes it so hard, he is dreadfully proud. So I must put my own pride underfoot and tell him that he is wrong to spoil two lives, simply because I am rich and he is poor. And if he rejects me I shall throw away this little amulet, and lose faith in everything."
Williard had nothing to say. Rather he saw himself once more in his little hall bedroom, his face buried in packets of old letters.
"Dinner is served." The butler appeared.
Williard rose.
"Come, sir," she said as the butler went out.