"No," said Winifred, still very deliberately and coldly. "I am a woman, and can not forgive her lack of trust as yet. I will yield so far as to allow her to come here and see you, as she is going abroad, but I will not see her myself."
"Your sister?" he suggested, still hoping.
"No," repeated Winifred. "On that I am immovable. Be content and—leave me!"
Her voice trembled over the concluding words, and the next moment she buried her face in her hands, leaning forward over the table. There were no sobs—no tears escaping from that indomitable lady, but her attitude was eloquent of tragedy. Lionel was not so foolish as to attempt consolation. He left the room, hoping to soften her before Beatrice came down.
The morning dragged wearily, but at last the luncheon-gong sounded, and Lionel went to the dining-room. Winifred joined him at the meal, but neither had much to say. Lionel, though understanding her resentment, could not excuse it, and his attitude in consequence was chilly. Winifred, reading his condemnation, made no effort further to justify herself, and both were glad when the meal came to an end. Before leaving the room she said, "If you prefer to see my sister in the house, the library will be at your disposal."
"I prefer the garden," he replied stiffly, and he thought he caught a smile.
"Suppose it rains?"
"There is The Happy Heart."
"But your promise still holds," she reminded him.
"If Miss Blair prefers the inn," said Lionel with polite determination, "we go there. That, of course, will cancel the promise, and you will not see me again. In case she does," he added more softly, "I had better say good-by now. Thank you for many kindnesses."