“I know your secret, Archie; I discovered it to-night.”
“My secret!” he returned, in utter amazement. “I have 338 no secret, Gracie.” And then, as he caught her meaning, a cloud came to his brow. “But this is nonsense!” he continued harshly,—“pure nonsense; put it out of your head.”
“I saw it to-night,” she went on, in a very low voice, undisturbed by his evident displeasure. “She is good and sweet, and quite lovely, Archie, and that young man is not half worthy of her; but she has no thought but for him.”
“Do you think I do not know that?” he returned, in an exasperated tone. “Grace, I will not have you talk in this way. I am cured,—quite cured: it was nothing but a passing folly.”
“A folly that made you very unhappy, my poor Archie; but—hush! you must not interrupt me—I am not going to talk about her.”
“Oh, that is well,” he returned, in a relieved tone.
“I was sorry—just a little sorry—at first, because I knew how much it had cost you; but this evening I could have found it in my heart to be angry with you,—yes, even with you. ‘Oh, the blindness of these men!’ I thought: ‘why will they trample on their own happiness?’”
“Are you speaking of me?” he asked, in a bewildered tone.
“Of whom should I be speaking?” she answered; and her voice had a peculiar meaning in it. “You are my dear brother,—my dearest brother; but you are no more sensible than other men.”
“I suppose not,” he returned, staring at her; “I suppose not.”