“I can't help it,” she said, brokenly. “She did look at me so.”
“Don't mind her one bit, Lily,” said George. He half laughed at the memory of Aunt Maria's face, even while the tender tone sounded in his voice. “Don't mind that poor old maid. Neither of us were to blame. I suppose it did look as if we had taken possession of her premises, and she was astonished, that was all. How funny she looked, poor thing, with her bonnet awry!”
“I know she must think I have done something dreadful,” sobbed Lily.
“Nonsense!” George said again, and his pressure of her arm tightened. “I was just going when she came in, anyway. There is nothing at all to be ashamed of, only—” He hesitated.
“What?” asked Lily.
“Well, to tell you the truth, Lily,” he said then, “it does look to me as if Miss Edgham's headache was only another way of telling me she did not wish to see me.”
“Oh, I guess not,” said Lily.
“For some reason or other she does not seem to like me,” George said, with rather a troubled voice; but he directly laughed.
“I don't see any reason why she shouldn't like you,” Lily said.
They had reached Lily's door, and the light from the sitting-room windows shone on her lovely face, past which the snow drifted like a white veil.