“I love him,” she said to herself, “but I am not brave enough to give up all for him. Oh, why did we ever meet?”
The next morning she received a letter from Gerald. It contained no reproach—only an entreaty that she would name a time when he might see her. Mrs. Cathcart was true to her duty. Before James Herbert was out of bed she had sent him word that a letter had come for Eugenia. He went at once to his sister. His greeting was quite friendly.
“Eugenia,” he said presently, “of course by now you have put all that nonsense about that sculptor-fellow out of your pretty head?”
“It is no nonsense.”
“Well, if you mean to be obstinate I must interfere. Have you seen him since?”
“Aunt went to his studio. I was with her.”
“She ought to have known better. If she encourages you we shall quarrel. Do you correspond? Tell me the truth.”
She offered him Gerald’s letter. He waved it aside as a thing beneath his notice.
“Have you answered it?” he asked.
“Not yet. I am just going to.”