"That's all right, dear. You can't help it." He pressed her hand a last time. "I won't come on now. You understand—I would rather be alone. Good-bye."
"Good-bye."
She watched him till he was out of sight. A tear rolled down her cheek. She rubbed it quickly and impatiently away. Then she sprang down and went home. She felt shaken and vaguely regretful, and was filled with the one desire to be with her mother.
Mrs. Ingestre was in the garden when Nora reached the vicarage. She was looking paler than usual, but she greeted her daughter with the customary grave, affectionate smile.
"You are out early to-day," she said.
Nora came and slipped her arm through her mother's.
"I have something serious to tell you," she said. "Robert has asked me to be his wife."
She spoke quickly, breathlessly, as though disburdening her heart of an uncomfortable load. Mrs. Ingestre said nothing, but waited quietly for what was to come. She held a bunch of roses, and if Nora had been less self-absorbed, she would have seen that the white hand trembled.
"I wanted him to propose to me," Nora went on with her confession. "I wanted to find out if I cared—I wanted to care, but—I don't—not enough. So I said 'No.' I am glad it is over."
Mrs. Ingestre pressed the arm resting on her own.