She paused, waiting for him to guess her fiancé; but he remained obstinately silent.
“To Arthur Faunce,” she told him.
The doctor forced himself to hold out both hands to meet hers.
“You want me to congratulate you?” he demanded bruskly. “I sha’n’t! I’m going to congratulate him, instead. That’s the way to look at it.”
She laughed.
“Papa’s pleased, and I’m so glad that he is! But I won’t keep you from your rest now. Come over to lunch, instead of breakfast.”
She moved toward the door, her eyes smiling at him. There was something about her that seemed, to the doctor, not wholly happy. There was a tremulous note in her voice, and her eyes were too bright. They were at the door, and he suddenly laid his fatherly hand on her shoulder.
“Diane, do you love him? Are you following your heart?”
She did not answer immediately. Her gaze dwelt on the wide, snowy landscape before them. Then she looked up, and an exquisite blush softened her face.
“Yes,” she replied slowly, but with an engaging candor. “I couldn’t marry for any reason but that. I—I’m following my heart.”