"Maybe not—if you look at it so. You're very forgiving, Lucy Ellen. You've forgotten how he treated you once."
"No—o—o, I haven't," faltered Lucy Ellen.
"Anyway," said Cecily coldly, "you shouldn't encourage his attentions, Lucy Ellen; you know you couldn't marry him even if he asked you. You promised."
All the fitful color went out of Lucy Ellen's face. Under Cecily's pitiless eyes she wilted and drooped.
"I know," she said deprecatingly, "I haven't forgotten. You are talking nonsense, Cecily. I like to see Cromwell, and he likes to see me because I'm almost the only one of his old set that is left. He feels lonesome in Oriental now."
Lucy Ellen lifted her fawn-colored little head more erectly at the last of her protest. She had saved her self-respect.
In the month that followed Cromwell Biron pressed his suit persistently, unintimidated by Cecily's antagonism. October drifted into November and the chill, drear days came. To Cecily the whole outer world seemed the dismal reflex of her pain-bitten heart. Yet she constantly laughed at herself, too, and her laughter was real if bitter.
One evening she came home late from a neighbor's. Cromwell Biron passed her in the hollow under the bare boughs of the maple that were outlined against the silvery moonlit sky.
When Cecily went into the house, Lucy Ellen opened the parlor door. She was very pale, but her eyes burned in her face and her hands were clasped before her.
"I wish you'd come in here for a few minutes, Cecily," she said feverishly.