"I hope it is so. She is the nicest girl, and he deserves a good wife. I used to sing duets with her when she was last at the Palmery."
"Oh!" said Georgina, turning her pretty nose into the air, "and so you fell in love with her."
"No," replied Henry; "my love was not mine to give."
Another pause. Georgina snatched a second flower—a carnation this time—and began pulling it to pieces.
"I suppose you heard from him this morning?"
"Yes."
"And where is he now?"
"In Spain. But he talks of coming home."
He stole a glance at her; at the loving light that shone in her bright blue eyes; at the soft glow, red as the carnation she was despoiling, on her conscious cheek. Why did he not read the signs in all their full meaning? Why did hope struggle with the conviction that would have arisen in his heart?