“No, no! Not yet. Maybe you won’t want me to—— Oh, Nevin, I’ve been trying to tell you every night lately how sorry I was—I’d acted so—about the rug—and I couldn’t! You wouldn’t give me a chance.”
The well-known stiffness came over him—a shadow of the past shade.
“That’s of no consequence—don’t let’s talk about it.”
“Yes, please—I must! Oh, Nevin, I hope you won’t mind. I knew I couldn’t be decent while the rug was there. I’m so frightfully narrow-minded—things make me horrid even when I don’t want to be. I’ve—I’ve sold it.”
“Sold it?”
“Yes. Mrs. Brereton bought it for her brother-in-law’s room. She didn’t pay quite as much as you did—you left the price mark on—but she said you were cheated.”
“I don’t care what you do with it. I thought it was a pretty good sort, myself.”
“It was a lovely rug,” said Mrs. Thatcher earnestly, “only it wasn’t in the right place. It was just what Mrs. Brereton wanted—for her brother-in-law. But it seemed so mean of me to sell it—when it was your present—and I’ve been so unhappy lately—Nevin—you can’t think!”
Her eyes brimmed as she gazed at him; the red cherries in her hat shook against the dark hair that framed her soft, pale cheeks.