“She says that isn't it,” replied Henry, gloomily, “but she goes about with a face like grim death, and I don't know what to make of it.”
“She'll tell finally.”
“I don't know whether she will or not.”
“Women always do.”
“I don't know whether she will or not.”
“She will.”
Henry remained with Meeks until quite late. Sylvia sewed and sewed by her sitting-room lamp. Her face never relaxed. She could hear the hum of voices across the hall.
After awhile the door of the parlor was flung violently open, and she heard Horace's rushing step upon the stair. Then Rose came in, all pale and tearful.
“I have told him I couldn't marry him, Aunt Sylvia,” she said.
Sylvia looked at her. “Why not?” she asked, harshly.