She was silent for an instant. Then she said, quietly. “Boy, what is it? Is there something else you haven't told me? Something about—her?”
“No, no,” I stammered.
“Isn't there? Are you sure?”
I do not know what reply I should have made. Her question, coming so close upon the heels of Dorinda's hints, upset me completely. Was it written upon my face, for everyone to see? Did I look the incredible idiot that I knew myself to be? For I did know it. In spite of my determination not to admit it even in my innermost thoughts, I knew. I was in love with Mabel Colton—madly, insanely, hopelessly in love with her, and should be until my dying day. I had played with fire too long.
Before I could answer there came a knock at the door. It opened and Dorinda's head appeared. She seemed, for her, excited.
“There's somebody to see you, Ros,” she said. “You'd better come out soon's you can. He's in a hurry.”
“Someone to see me,” I repeated. “Who is it?”
Dorinda glanced at Mother and then at me. She did not so much as whisper, but her lips formed a name. I rose from my chair.
Mother looked at me and then at Dorinda.
“Who is it, Roscoe?” she asked.