"It happens to be important," said John, indicating the letter.
"Oh, pardon me!" with real contrition. It was not her way to flirt with a young man over a letter. John held up the envelope so that she saw the superscription. She knew the name very well. It was constantly in the newspapers, and the owner of it had dined once at her father's house.
"He's the head of the syndicate that has bought the Traction Company. He has asked me to stay in Clarkson and run the street cars."
"That's very nice. But merit gets rewarded sometimes."
"But I have refused the offer," he said quietly. He had not intended to tell her; but it was doubtless just as well; and it would alter nothing. "My work in Clarkson is finished," he went on. "Warry's affairs will make it necessary for me to go back from time to time, but it will not be home again."
"I'm sorry," she said. "I thought you were to be of us. But I suppose there is a greater difference between the East and the West than any one can understand who has not known both." They regarded each other gravely, as if this were, of course, the whole matter at issue.
"I can't go back,—it's too much; I can't do it," he said wearily.
"I know how it must be,—this last year and Warry! It was all so terrible—for all of us." She was looking away; the wind had freshened; the yacht's pennant stood out against the blue sky.
John rose and looked down at her. It was natural that she should include herself with him in a common grief for the man who had been his friend and whom she had loved. She had always been kind to him; her kindness stung him now, for he knew that it was because of Warry; and a resolve woke in him suddenly. He would not suffer her kindness under a false pretense; he could at least be honest with her.