“It was not; Caton alone is aware I refrained because of the reason I have already given you.”
“Your wound is not serious?”
“Too insignificant to be worthy of mention.”
She was silent, her eyes upon the carpet, her bosom rising and falling with the emotion she sought in vain to suppress.
“I thank you for coming to me,” she said finally. “I shall understand it all better, comprehend your motive better, for this brief talk. Whatever you may think of me in the future,” and she held out her hand with something of the old frankness in the gesture, “do not hold me as ungrateful for a single kindness you have shown me. I have not fully understood you, Captain Wayne; indeed, I doubt if I do even now, yet I am under great obligations which I hope some day to be able to requite, at least in part.”
“A thousand times they are already paid,” I exclaimed eagerly, forgetting for the moment the presence of her silent chaperon. “You have given me that which is more than life—”
“Do not, Captain Wayne,” she interrupted, her cheeks aflame. “I would rather forget. Please do not; I did not send to you for that, only to tell you I knew and understood. We must part now. Will you say goodbye?”
“If you bid me, yes, I will say good-bye,” I answered, my own self-control brought back instantly by her words and manner, “but I retain that which I do not mean to forget—your gracious words of invitation to the North.”
She stood with parted lips, as though she struggled to force back that which should not be uttered. Then she whispered swiftly:
“It is not my wish that you should.”