"It was the one I took at Godstone."
"You might as well have sent the one you took of me in the tucked chiffon, while you were about it. That thing at Godstone didn't show the best side of my face."
"He loves you," cried Bee passionately. "Are you made of wood? You're the world to him, he thinks you understand him, he's coming to you to-day, praying for your answer! Have you got no feeling in you; can't you pity him?"
"Good Lord!" said Hilda, "don't go on at me like that. Of course I pity him; I'm very sorry for him indeed, I'm sure. I think I shall write him a very nice note after he has got over the shock," she added complacently, "hoping he'll soon forget me, and 'find comfort in his work.' I might do that, mightn't I? Something very kind."
"And when he comes to-day?"
"What, when he comes? You don't expect me to explain matters to him, do you?"
"No, I must do that, I know; it serves me right for not having told him before. But he'll ask to see you afterwards—to say good-bye to you. You'll go down and speak to him?"
"I shan't do anything of the sort, it isn't likely. To say 'good-bye' to me? Why, the man's a stranger to me, it would be most horribly embarrassing—I should feel a perfect idiot. You can tell him I had to go out—or that I'm not well. Besides, I shouldn't think he would ask to see me when he hears he has been taken in; why should he?"
"'Why should he'? Because he loves you, because he's hungry for you, mad for you. Because you're pretty and soft, and made for men to admire, and he'll want to look at your face, and touch your hand, and hold it for a second longer than he ought to. And if you let him, would it kill you? Would it be so much to give him? Can you read that letter—can you hear his life—and smirk and talk of your 'embarrassment'? To him it'll be worse than embarrassment, it'll be despair."
"You're very rude," said Hilda, paling. "I think you're in love with him yourself, upon my word I do!"