“You’ll be nothing of the kind.”
“You can’t help being—Uncle Baldy. Isn’t that—delicious? And now, will you come in to-night and sit by my fire? Uncle Frederick is out.”
“I’ve sat too often by your fire.”
“Too often for your own peace of mind? I know that. And I’m glad of it.” Again he heard a ripple of laughter.
“It isn’t a thing to laugh at.”
She hesitated, then said in a different tone, “I am not laughing. But I want you by my fire to-night.”
It was late when Evans went up-stairs. He had spent the evening with his mother, discussing with her some matters where his legal knowledge helped. They did not speak of Jane. Their avoidance of the subject showed their preoccupation with it. But neither dared approach it.
On the bedside table in Evans’ room lay the valentine he had bought for Jane. There it was, with its cupids and bleeding hearts—its forget-me-nots—and golden darts.
Of course he could not send it now. He couldn’t ever send another valentine to Jane. She belonged to Towne.
It didn’t seem credible. It was one of the things—like war—that men refused to believe could ever happen. Yet it had happened.