“P.S.—John calls me Di: he doesn’t like Dine.”
Crumbling the letter in both hands, she laid it upon the coals; then she stood with one foot on the fender, leaning forward with her forehead upon the mantel, thinking, thinking. Before she was aware the door was opened and some one came behind her and put both arms around her.
“Is any thing the matter with Dine?”
“Oh, no,” shaking herself loose from his arms and creeping out of them.
He pushed the ottoman nearer and seated himself upon the parrot and the roses; she stood on the edge of the rug, with her arms folded across her breast to keep herself quiet; how could she tell him the truth? He was not a boy to laugh and cry and fling it off; he had loved Dine as long as Felix Harrison had loved her! He would take it quietly enough; she had no dread of an outburst; it might be that Dine’s silence in regard to his letter had been a preparation; surely every hard thing that came had its preparation; the heavy blow was never sent before the word of warning.
“Sick!” She lingered over the word as if help would come before it were ended. “Oh, no, she is well and happy.”
“Does she write you secrets?”
“She always tells me her secrets.”
“Has any phenomenon occurred?”