“Yes, the very commonplace.”
“And nothing tempts you?” She shot a glance which searched him, knocking to find a hollow sound in his protestations.
“No.”
She walked away to the farthest shade of the cypresses, thinking with a pang: “He will marry Molly. I am—dust and ashes.” Then she was haughty with herself for having craved relief through him. It was foolish for her to believe that she might yet be taught to accept and to feel again as children feel. What could he do for her? What had she to do with love? She had never known the word until to-night.
In an instant she was at his side again. “You think me an impossible creature to be shunned?”
“No. I was not thinking of you in particular,” he answered gravely. And she felt doubly ashamed, as they descended the terraces of the garden, silently, mournfully.
CHAPTER IX
That evening Molly remarked to her friend abruptly, “Walter thinks he wishes to marry me.”
“Well?” Mrs. Wilbur asked with quick curiosity.
“I’ll tell you all about it. He feels badly now, but, if it doesn’t get out he will be all right in a few weeks. He asked me to do it—marry him—at least for your sake. But I told him I couldn’t do it, even for you.”