"As to home ties, Edina, I shall have none then. There is only my father now. Of course my future movements will be regulated with reference to him as long as he is with us. But—I fear—that may not be very much longer. As you know."
She made a slight movement of assent; and bent her head over the ferns.
"And I shall not be likely to make home ties for myself," went on George Atkinson, unconscious of the anguish he was inflicting. "I shall never marry."
"Why?" breathed Edina.
"I scarcely know why," he replied, after a pause, as if searching for a reason. "I have never admitted the thought. I fancy I shall like a life of change and travel best. And so—when once we part, Edina—and that must be to-morrow, you say, though I think you might have remained longer—it is hard to say when we shall meet again. If ever."
"Halloa, who's here? Oh, it is you, George; and Edina! Where's your aunt? Dinner must be nearly ready."
The interruption came from brisk little Timothy Atkinson, who bounded into the room with quick steps and his shining bald head.
As Edina turned at his entrance, George Atkinson caught the expression of her face; the strange sadness of its eyes, its extreme pallor. She looked like one who has received a shock. All at once a revelation broke upon him, as if from subtle instinct. For an instant he stood motionless, one hand pushing back his brown hair; hair that was very much the same shade as Edina's.
"It may be better so," he said in a whisper, meeting her yearning eyes with his earnest gaze. "At any rate, I have thought so. Better for myself, better for all."
The tall, portly frame of Mrs. Timothy Atkinson, clothed with rich crimson satin, rolled into the room, and the conversation was at an end. And with it, as Edina knew, her life's romance.