“I think certainly Adrien ought to know.”
“Then I'll tell her to-night,” said Patricia. “I want it all over before our fete, which is day after to-morrow.”
Rupert Stillwell had been in almost daily attendance upon Adrien during the past two weeks, calling for her almost every afternoon with his car. The day following he came for her according to his custom. Upon Adrien's face there dwelt a gentle, tender, happy look as if her heart were singing for very joy. That look upon her face drove from Rupert all the hesitation and fear which had fallen upon him during these days of her ministry to the wounded girl. He took a sudden and desperate resolve that he would put his fate to the test.
Adrien's answer was short and decisive.
“No, Rupert,” she said. “I cannot. I thought for a little while, long ago, that perhaps I might, but now I know that I never could have loved you.”
“You were thinking of that note of Jack Maitland's which I sent you last night?”
“Oh, no,” she said gently. “Not that.”
“I felt awfully mean about that, Adrien. I feel mean still. I thought that as you had learned all about it from Victor, it was of no importance.”
“Yes,” she replied gently, “but I was the best judge of that.”
“Adrien, tell me,” Rupert's voice shook with the intensity of his passion, “is there no hope?”