Philippa shook her head.
“No,” she said, “home things had nothing to do with it. At the time I refused him there was no special need of me at home. And my parents are too unselfish to have allowed a sacrifice of that kind; something else would have been arranged. No; I have given you my full reason. But—how I came to find out what I did—that,” with a slight smile, “is my secret. And my great reason for not telling you the whole story is that I know mamma would rather I did not tell it, even to you.”
“She knows everything?”
“Everything,” said Philippa, “and she does so ‘understand.’ And never for one moment have I regretted what I did. But Evey,” she went on, “poor Evey, is still a little sore about it. She does not know quite the whole, as mamma does.”
“Thank you, dear, for telling me all you have done,” said Maida. And then after a little pause: “Do you think you will never marry, Philippa? Has it left that feeling?”
“No, not exactly,” said the girl, frankly. “You see, after all, it was not him I cared for; it was something I believed, or thought I believed him to be. I don’t think I shall ever marry, however. I suppose, though it sounds rather conceited to say so, that it would be difficult for me ever to feel quite sure I was not making a mistake.”
She looked down at Miss Lermont as she spoke—Maida was by this time indoors and on her couch again—with a half-questioning look in her eyes.
“Don’t exaggerate that idea,” her friend replied, rather abruptly. “After all, every woman is in the same case? And remember you have not seen many men; your life has been to some extent isolated. Don’t begin to think there are hardly any happy marriages. It is a trick of the day to talk so.”
Philippa’s face grew rather red.
“Don’t snub me so severely,” she said. “Put a little of my hesitation down to humility.”