Bee was writing, and rose confused.
"What is it?"
"A proposal!" She giggled. "I mean it From David Lee! It's a mystery."
Bee started. Her gaze wandered from the letter in Hilda's hand to the letter on the table. She did not speak.
"Read it," repeated Hilda.
"I'd rather not," she answered painfully; "it's written to you."
"What rubbish! Well, listen, then. You'd better sit down again, my dear—he worships me at great length."
She dropped into a chair herself, and began to declaim the pages with zest. In moments she looked up, with a comment or grimace. The woman sat passive, never meeting her glance. She listened to David's avowal of devotion to her sister dumbly—line after line, to the end—her hands hanging at her sides, her chin sunk. Only her meagre bosom showed that she was listening. For the first time it heaved to love words that were not ordered for the ears of all—for the first time in her life she heard a man's passion crying out to flesh and blood. When she raised her head at last, she was white to the lips.
"What's the matter?"
Contrition, love and pity surged in her. In the distorted body all the forces of womanhood beat at his appeal. She yearned over the story of his childish years like a mother, she trembled to his passion like a wife. The thin hands strained across the lifting bosom; she found her voice.