“Do tell me!” cried Milly the breathless.
The sight of a lone, troubled Mary in the little sitting-room, the look on her face as she twisted a handkerchief into knots and coils had been too much for Milly. She was a downright person and the silence of Mary was so trying to a forthcoming nature that the query at the tip of Milly’s tongue seemed likely to burn a hole in it.
“Has he—have you—did he——?” The demand was indelicate, but it sprang from the depths as Milly measured them. Suddenly she saw tears.
“I am so glad, I am so very glad!”
Mary smiled, but the look in her eyes had the power to startle the affectionate Milly.
“He is the luckiest man I know, but he is such a dear that he deserves to be.” It was a peculiarity of Mary’s that she didn’t like kissing, but Milly in a burst of loyal affection was guilty of a sudden swoop upon her friend.
“Oh, don’t,” said Mary, in a voice from which all the accustomed gayety was gone.
Milly gazed in consternation.
“You—you have not refused him?”
“No.” And then there came a sudden flame. “I’m a selfish, egotistical wretch.”