"Oh, no, no, of course not," answered Gifford, "nothing like that. The fact is, Helen—the fact is—well, plainly, aunt Ruth thinks that that young Forsythe is in love with Lois."
Gifford's manner, as he spoke, told Helen what she had only surmised before, and she was betrayed into an involuntary expression of sympathy.
"Oh," cried the young man, with an impatient gesture and a sudden flush tingling across his face, "you misunderstand me. I haven't come to whine about myself, or anything like that. I'm not jealous; for Heaven's sake, don't think I am such a cur as to be jealous! If that man was worthy of Lois, I—why, I'd be the first one to rejoice that she was happy. I want Lois to be happy, from my soul! I hope you believe me, Helen?"
"I believe anything you tell me," she answered gently, "but I don't quite understand how you feel about Mr. Forsythe; every one speaks so highly of him. Even aunt Deely has only pleasant things to say of 'young Forsythe,' as she calls him."
Gifford left his chair, and began to walk about the room, his hands grasping the lapels of his coat, and his head thrown back in a troubled sort of impatience. "That's just it," he said; "in this very letter aunt Ruth is enthusiastic, and I can't tell you anything tangible against him, only I don't like him, Helen. He's a puppy,—that's the amount of it. And I thought—I just thought—I'd come and ask you if you supposed—if you—of course I've no business to ask any question—but if you thought"—
But Helen had understood his vague inquiry, "I should think," she said "you would know that if he is what you call a puppy Lois couldn't care for him."
Gifford sat down, and took her ball of wool, beginning nervously to unwind it, and then wind it up again.
"Perhaps she wouldn't see it," he said tentatively.
"Ah, you don't trust her!" Helen cried brightly, "or you would not say that. (Don't tie my worsted into knots!) When you write to Lois, why don't you frankly say what you think of him?"
"Oh, I could not," he responded quickly. "Don't you see, Helen, I'm a young fellow myself, and—and you know Lois did not care for me when I—told her. And if I said anything now, it would only mean that I was jealous, that I wanted her myself. Whereas, I give you my word," striking his fist sharply on his knee, "if he was fit for her, I'd rejoice; yes, I—I love her so much that if I saw her happy with any other man (who was worthy of her!) I'd be glad!"