"I must know first what it is." She was smiling, and yet wishing he would not look at her in such a strange way; she had never known before that his frank, good-natured face could wear so sober an aspect.
"I wish you would promise me that you'll keep out of this fellow's way,—that you'll never permit him to hold any converse with you, and, above all, when no one else is by."
"I'll promise no such thing," she answered promptly, and with a look of defiance.
"And why not?" he asked in the same grave way, and with no show of being irritated by her quick refusal. Indeed he now spoke even more gently than before.
"Because," she replied, "it is a silly thing to ask. He is a gentleman; and I do not feel bound to fly from before him like a guilty thing, or as though I were not able to take care of myself. Besides, we are not like to meet again—he and I."
Her voice sank at the last words, as though she were speaking them to herself—and it had a touch of wistfulness or of regret.
This set Hugh to scowling once more. But he said nothing, and sat toying in an abstracted fashion with her small, soft fingers.
The desire to plead his own cause was again strong upon him, and he was wondering if he might not in some way sound the depths of her feeling toward him, without violating the pledge which, although unspoken by his lips, he knew her brother—his own dearest friend—assumed to have been given.
He was aroused from these speculations by a question from Dorothy.
"You will never speak to him of me in any manner, will you, Hugh?" she asked coaxingly.