"It will seem very—queer, at first, Guilford," I confessed, with a preliminary shrinking at the thought of facing mother.
"Queer's no word to use in connection with it," he answered crossly, then I heard heavy footsteps in the corridor above, and I took a quick step toward him.
"I must go up-stairs," I whispered. "Old man Hudson is making night hideous, I know!—But all this is really true, Guilford! And—and you must wear this in your vest pocket now!"
I slipped the scarab ring into his hand.
"You are determined?" he asked dully.
"I am—awakened," I replied.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that you are not really in love with me—never have been in love with me, and never could be except upon certain occasions when I was dreadfully dressed-up—where there were red roses and the sound of violin music."
"Grace, you are—unkind," he said, with a groping look on his face. "I confess that I don't in the least understand you!"
"Then how lucky we are!" I exclaimed. "So many people don't find this out until after they've got their house all furnished! We're going to be friends always, Guilford."