"Yes," Alden agreed, quickly, "I suppose they do need you. I was selfish, perhaps."
Hot words came to her lips but she choked them back. For an instant she was tempted to tell him all she had seen and heard a few days before, to accuse him of disloyalty, and then prove it. Her face betrayed her agitation, but Alden was looking out across the valley, and did not see. In his pocket the letter for Edith lay consciously, as though it were alive.
"It isn't that you don't love me, is it?" he asked, curiously. His masculine vanity had been subtly aroused.
They Part
Rosemary looked him straight in the face. She was white, now, to the lips. "Yes," she lied. "It is that more than anything else."
"Why, my dear girl! I thought——"
"So did I. We were both mistaken, that is all."
"And you really don't love me?"
"Not in the least."
Alden laughed—a little mirthless, mocking laugh. It is astonishing, sometimes, how deeply a man may be hurt through his vanity. Rosemary had turned away, and he called her back.