His tone was as level as if he were discussing some trivial matter. He had given up the fight, and, paying no heed to my unkindness, had fallen back upon the old habit, the instinct of looking out for me, smoothing my way after his own fashion that is so irritating.
"You can't stay among these—these strangers, can you?" he continued. "Are you going home?"
"To the farm? Never, I hope. Mrs. Van Dam, my chaperon, has many plans for me—better form than talking things over with a man. In the spring we may go abroad."
He tried—poor, foolish fellow—to read from my face the riddle of a woman's heart before he answered:—
"I'm afraid I don't altogether understand you, Nelly."
Presently he left me, wondering, even as I wonder now: Why don't I care for John? He's a strong man and he loves me. Just another of Nature's sorry jests, isn't it?
It was all so hopeless, so tangled. I leaned against the mantel, relieved by his going, but unutterably lonely. Just for a moment I feared the brilliant future that stretched in vista—without love, it looked an endless level of tedium and weariness. My bitterness towards John melted and the years we had known each other unrolled themselves before me—happy, innocent years. I felt his strength and gentleness, and of a sudden something clutched at my throat. Sob followed sob; I shook in a tearless convulsion.
Only for an instant. Then I, too, turned to leave the room, but fate or instinct had brought John back and I was startled by his voice:—
"Nelly, tell me!"
He did not come near me. There was no gust of passion in his tone, yet I felt as never before the depth of his tenderness. He had not come back to woo, but as the old friend, ambitious of helpfulness.