Ordinarily, Marjorie had the sensible appetite of a young country girl. To-day she ate nothing. She sipped her tea, and looked with great soulful, miserable eyes at Hugh.
“And now, little girl, come, tell me.”
“Oh, Hugh, not now. It is so difficult, almost impossible to tell you. I wrote that letter days and days before I posted it, and then I made up my mind all of a sudden to post it, and regretted it the moment after.”
“Why?”
She shook her head.
“There is something wrong between you and Tom? Tell me, girlie!”
She was silent for a moment. “There is—everything wrong between Tom and—and me. But it is my—my fault, not his. Oh, Hugh, it is all my fault!”
“How?”
“I—I don’t love him!” the girl gasped.
“Eh?” Hugh started. He sat back and stared at her. “Why—you—I—I thought—”