“Has she got everything? That’s what I want to know. Do you think—you’re great pals, you and Diane—do you think she cared for Overton?”
Fanny was silent for a moment. Her hands were trembling a little, and she thrust them out of sight under the table.
“That’s not a fair question. I couldn’t answer it, could I, if I knew? And I don’t know. Diane never talks about herself like some other girls. She wraps herself up the way—I don’t know how to describe it, but you’ve seen some flowers, the more delicate ones, fold their petals together at nightfall and hide their golden hearts? I’ve always thought of them when—when I’ve tried to pry into Diane’s soul.”
He reflected, looking thoughtfully into the fire.
“That’s a beautiful idea, isn’t it?—that her heart’s like a delicate flower!”
The thought seemed to please him so much that he remained silent, dwelling on it. Fanny, keenly aware of the cause of his preoccupation, poured out another cup of tea and tried to drink it. Then he returned to the subject.
“I know that Overton cared for her. I knew it before he went away. That’s why I—I——”
He stopped, the color mounting painfully to his hair.
“Why you didn’t speak?” she concluded gallantly.
He turned a flushed face toward her.