But Arthur was deceived by her seeming levity, and suffered a pang of outraged dignity.
“I see that you do not take me seriously, though I am very much in earnest,” he exclaimed, stiffly.
“So am I,” she answered, trying to subdue herself, and wiping her eyes on a tiny square of lace. With another ripple of laughter, she added, lightly: “I have often heard of match-making mammas, but a match-making cousin is something new, ha! ha! and I am surprised at Fred Foster getting another man to do his courting for him.”
“Oh, Cinthia, you have quite misunderstood me!” he cried, in alarm. “Fred has no thought of what I have said to you. He is indeed capable of wooing for himself, and I think he has already told you of his love. Do not, I pray you, be angry at him for my blundering. When I spoke to you I had but one thought in my mind—my great desire to see you happy.”
His voice was humble, imploring, but she checked her wild laughter with a strong effort of will, and turned on him the fire of dark, resentful eyes.
“How dare you imply that I am unhappy? Can you dream I cling to the dead past still, that I remember it with aught but relief that I escaped you?” imperiously.
“Is it so indeed, Cinthia? Then I am rejoiced to hear it, unselfishly glad that I have not spoiled your life. The day may come when you and I, each married to another, may yet become dear friends,” he cried, earnestly, pleadingly.
Cinthia felt that indeed she hated him now, but pride rose in arms to mask every emotion.
She laughed again and actually held out her hand to him, saying carelessly:
“A pleasant prophecy! Let us begin our friendship now.”