What a fool Artie was? What fools all men were, not to be able to keep faith with a woman, and such a woman as Cary Farquhar! I rushed from the study into my room, and burst into a storm of tears, in the midst of which Aubrey found me.
"Poor little Faith! Poor, discouraged, little match-maker!" he said, smoothing my hair. But at that last I sat up and shook his hand off.
"It's so disgusting of him!" I stammered. "If you could have heard him when he was talking about Flora!"
"How do you know it was Artie who came in?" said Aubrey, gently.
I opened my mouth and simply stared at him. Then I went to the glass, smoothed my hair and straightened my belt.
"Where are you going?" asked my husband.
"I am going to see!" I exclaimed. "And if it isn't Artie—if she is kissing every man that comes into this house, I'll—I'll kill her."
"What! You'll kill her if you find that Artie is not the faithless wretch you were crying about?"
"Oh, Aubrey! How can you?" I cried.
He tried to catch me as I flew past, but I eluded him, and started firmly down the long hall. But in spite of myself, my feet dragged. What was Flora attempting? Did she hate me as her look implied? Did she love Artie as she declared, or was she simply endeavouring to get married, and so save herself from a life of teaching, which she openly detested?