She watched him anxiously. Why didn't he speak? This was dreadfully unpleasant.
"Thursa," he said at last, "will you sing for me that Rosary song?
Just once. I want to hear it."
She sang it, sweet and tender as ever, every word a caress.
When she was done, he stood up and said very gently, but very sadly, "I wanted to be sure it was not ever meant for me. A clean cut is the easiest healed."
He went to his phonograph records and picked out the "Rosary." Only for a second he fondled it in his hand, then crushed it in pieces and threw them into the fire. "There now, Thursa," he said steadily, "that chapter is closed forever."
She looked at him in astonishment. "Why don't you get excited and threaten to shoot yourself and all that?"
"Because I have no notion of doing it," he said.
"Well, I do wish you would be a little bit melodramatic—this is deadly uninteresting. I would have loved to write home something really thrilling."
"This is thrilling enough for me, Thursa," he answered. Then, after a pause, he said, "Shall I send your telegram?"
"Not just yet," she answered. "You see, Arthur, I want to be sure. I know that Mr. Smeaton is lovely and all that, but I want to be sure he is a gentleman. I want you to go and see him; Arthur. I will do whatever you say."