“Oh, I shall never flirt again, never! I am quite cured of that since—” She paused, bit her rosy lip, and added: “I understand how you feel. I—I will not make you keep the secret long—only until—” She paused again in dismay, finding she had almost uttered aloud her thought that she would only keep him silent until Florian granted her her freedom.
“Until—when?” asked Desha, gravely, with his large, frank blue eyes on her face.
Viola blushed, and answered, evasively:
“Oh, until two or three weeks,” adding to herself that she would write to Florian tomorrow, and tell him she could not marry him, because she had learned to love his friend, Professor Desha, better, and that she must take back her promise. Of course he would write back and say that under the circumstances he released her and wished her much happiness. Then she would be free to have her engagement announced.
But even in the midst of her little scheming came a remorseful thought.
“Poor Florian! It will make him very sad. He loved me dearly.”
And the next day she could not bring herself to write the words that should strike down his happy dream of love.
Keen remorse seized on her heart for having been so fickle in her love that the fancy had not outlived Florian’s absence.
“It seems so cruel to sadden his heart just now when he is in trouble over his sick father. I will wait till tomorrow,” she decided.
When tomorrow came she found herself too cowardly still to give Florian pain. She kept putting off her duty from day to day, and almost forgetting Florian as she basked in the smiles of her new lover.