"And did the lady refuse to go?" said Eleanor bending over her work and speaking huskily.
"I do not think he ever asked her. I almost wish he had."
"Almost, aunt Caxton? Why he may have done her the greatest wrong. She might like him without his knowing it; it was not fair to go without giving her the chance of saying what she would do."
"Well, he is gone," said Mrs. Caxton; "and he went alone. I think men make mistakes sometimes."
Eleanor sewed on nervously, with a more desperate haste than she knew, or than was in the least called for by the work in hand. Mrs. Caxton watched her, and turned away to the contemplation of the fire.
"Did the thought ever occur to you, Eleanor," she went on very gravely, "that he fancied you?"
Eleanor's glance up was even pitiful in its startled appeal.
"No, ma'am, of course not!" she said hastily. "Except—O aunt Caxton, why do you ask me such a thing!"
"Except,—my dear?"
"Except a foolish fancy of an hour," said Eleanor in overwhelmed confusion. "One day, for a little time—aunt Caxton, how can you ask me such a thing?"