"I used to think it impossible for Edith to improve; I find out my mistake to-day, as I find out many others. As it is not permitted one to say what one thinks on these subjects, one had better say nothing at all."
The flush that has risen to Edith's cheeks remains there, and deepens. After tea, at Trixy's urgent request, she sits down at the little hired piano, and sings some of the old songs.
"Your very voice has improved," Trix says admiringly. "Edith, sing Charley he's my darling, for Charley. It used to be a favorite of his."
She gives him a malicious sidelong glance. Charley, lying back in his mother's comfortable, cushioned rocking-chair, takes it calmly.
"It used to be, but it has ceased to be," he answers coolly. "Trix, go out like a good child, and get me the evening paper. Among my other staid, middle-aged habits, Lady Catheron, is that of reading the Post every evening religiously, after tea."
Never Edith any more—always Lady Catheron—never the girl he loved three years ago—whom he had said he would love all his life, but the richly dowered widow of Sir Victor Catheron. He will not generously forget, even for an instant, that he is an impecunious dry goods clerk, she a lady of rank and riches.
She rises to go—it is growing almost more than she can bear. Trix presses her to stay longer, but in vain; he never utters a word.
"Shall Charley call a carriage, or will you prefer to walk?" Trix asks doubtfully.
"She will walk," says Charley, suddenly looking up and interfering; "the night is fine, and I will see her home."
For one instant, at the tone of his voice, at the look of his eyes, her heart bounds.