The presence of the maids who waited at dinner kept their conversation on the Colonel's rapid gain in health, village incidents, and the mill life—mere loitering disconnected talk of no interest except to fill the hour of two people who would have preferred to be silent.
John said, as he rose from the table, "I have a letter to write, Leila, and so I must leave you to the better company of your book." Once—but a little while ago—he would have asked what book was now on hand. "Any messages for aunt or uncle?"
"None—I wrote this morning."
He sat down in the library at his old desk and wrote: "Dear Leila"—Then he stood up—the easy freedom of the letter was denied to him. He was in the mood when outspoken speech, always for him the more natural way of expressing himself, became imperative. He went back to the hall.
The book lay face down on her lap. "What is it, John?" she asked.
"I want to talk to you—not here. Come into the library; those maids hear everything."
"Certainly," she said, "if you want me."
She sat down, and John leaning against the mantel and looking down at her, said, "I came in here to write to you what is not easy to write or say—I prefer to put it into speech."
"Indeed! I am quite ready to listen."
"After your recent treatment of me, I have no inclination to make myself needlessly unpleasant. You have made it plain to me that what my heart longs for is to be put aside forever. There is something due to a man's self-respect. But if you were a man, Leila, I could say more easily something else. Are we—am I to lose also your friendship—or is even that at an end?"