"This is delightful, is it not?" Claudia whispered to me in the drawing-room on the evening of her return.
"Delightful," I answered; but I was puzzled. Ideala's variableness was all on the surface, and I felt sure that this sudden change, which looked like ease after agony, meant something serious.
She did not keep me long in suspense. The next morning she came to my studio door and looked in shyly.
"Come in," I said. "I have been expecting you," and then I went on with my painting. I saw she had something to tell me, and thought, as she was evidently embarrassed, it would be easier for her to speak if I did not look at her. "I hope you are going to stay with us some time now, Ideala," I added, glancing up at her as she came and looked over my shoulder at the picture.
Her face clouded. "I—I am afraid not," she answered, hesitating, and nervously fidgeting with some paint brushes that lay on a table beside her.
"I am afraid you will not want me when you know what I am going to do.
I only came back to tell you."
My heart stood still. "To tell me! Why, what are you going to do?"
"It is very hard to tell you," she faltered. "You and Claudia are my dearest friends, and I cannot bear to give you pain. But I must tell you at once. It is only right that you should know—especially as you will disapprove."
I turned to look at her, but she could not meet my eyes.
"Give us pain! Disapprove!" I exclaimed. "What on earth do you mean,
Ideala? What are you going to do?"