"I don't know, dear.... Is there anything you—you cared to ask me?—say to me?—tell me?—perhaps—"
"About what?"
So fearless and sweet and true the gaze that met her own that Constance hesitated.
"About Mr. Hamil?"
The girl looked at her; understood her; and the colour mounted to her temples.
"No," she said slowly, "there is nothing to tell anybody.... There never will be."
"I wish there were, child." Certainly Constance must have gone quite mad under the spell, for she had Shiela's soft hands in hers again, and was pressing them close between her palms, repeating: "I am sorry; I am, indeed. The boy certainly cares for you; he has told me so a thousand times without uttering a word. I have known it for weeks—feared it. Now I wish it. I am sorry."
"Mr. Hamil—understands—" faltered Shiela; "I—I care so much for him—so much more than for any other man; but not in the way you—you are kind enough to—wish—"
"Does he understand?"
"Y-yes. I think so. I think we understand each other—thoroughly. But"—she blushed vividly—"I—did not dream that you supposed—"