"Is she in love?" he asked.
"A little, Phil."
"Does she admit it?" he demanded, unpleasantly astonished.
"She admits it in a dozen innocent ways to me who can understand her; but to herself she has not admitted it, I think—could not admit it yet; because—because—"
"Who is it?" asked Selwyn; and there was in his voice the slightest undertone of a growl.
"Dear, shall I tell you?"
"Why not?"
"Because—because—Phil, I think that our pretty Eileen is a little in love with—you."
He straightened out to his full height, scarlet to the temples; she dropped her linked fingers in her lap, gazing at him almost sadly.
"Dear, all the things you are preparing to shout at me are quite useless; I know; I don't imagine, I don't forestall, I don't predict. I am not discounting any hopes of mine, because, Phil, I had not thought—had not planned such a thing—between you and Eileen—I don't know why. But I had not; there was Suddy Gray—a nice boy, perfectly qualified; and there were alternates more worldly, perhaps. But I did not think of you; and that is what now amazes and humiliates me; because it was the obvious that I overlooked—the most perfectly natural—"