"What, she won't come!" he cried, thunderstruck at such a solution. He sunk on the bench, waiting desperately for some glimpse of the woman. His rage departed like a puff of wind, leaving him beaten, lonely, and blank.
"She will come to-morrow," he said, as he trudged wearily home.
She came neither that day nor the succeeding days. Then in Fargus the last seeds of resistance died and left nothing but a barren, disheartened surrender. He had no longer any doubts as to his true state, her absence taught him what he could suffer.
A week passed before a chance meeting on the street brought them together again. He sought her forgiveness abjectly and without shame. For a while she refused to give ear to his protestations, his explanations and his promises. At last she inclined her head and replied seriously:
"Very well. But I shall reserve my opinion, for the future."
With this resumption of their daily meetings, his suspicion started up anew, without his still being able to find a hook whereon to hang them. She remained cold and uninterested, refusing always to believe in his vows of affection. It is true, he had not spoken of marriage.
"Sheila, you don't care for me," he said once to her in unreasoning anger.
"I don't," she said with a nod.
"And it won't make any difference to you if you never see me again."
"Yes, it would. You have been kind, and my life is lonely," she said reflectively. "I will miss you."