"Yes," he said after a pause; "yes, if she had let me. Do you know, I believe it's getting chilly—shall we go home?"
To which proposal I gave swift assent—outwardly, at least. And as we walked along I marvelled at the restraint of the strong man beside me. I knew, or felt, rather, that his heart was a molten mass of fire—I couldn't have told why, but its burning heat was just as real to me as anything could be. I knew it was aflame; but he was as reserved, and cold, and strong, and silent as though we had been talking of something that had nothing to do with human hearts at all. I hated myself for the weakness I could not conceal. And I fairly loathed that Scotch girl who married the rich Australian—and I hoped all her children had flaming red hair, like I felt sure she had.
That same night I was chatting a while with uncle before he went to bed.
"And what is your majesty going to decide about Savannah—and the royal yacht—and Europe?" he suddenly enquired, after our talk had run a little on a kindred vein.
"I'm not going," I declared vehemently; "at least, not for a long time—I simply can't."
"I wouldn't either," he said meaningly, "if I were you—you'll be a fool if you do."
"Why?" demanded I.
"I reckon you know," said uncle; "if you don't, I won't tell you. And I don't blame you, honey. I think he's a true blue sort of chap—but he'll have to revise his views about the niggers."
Well, the result of the whole thing was this, that I spent a good half hour posting my diary that night. I too had begun a diary by this time—and I, too, took good care whose name shouldn't go into it. And the outcome of my half hour's pondering was this brief entry: "Have made up my mind that I can't marry Charlie—and I shall never, never marry the Reverend Gordon Laird."