“I ought to be——”
“But are you?”
“I’m tired, I think. I don’t know. Ever since I came home I’ve been nervous. Perhaps it is the reaction.”
“Jane, I’m going to say something. Don’t marry Uncle Fred unless you’re—sure. I went through all that with Del. And you see how little I knew of what I had in my heart to give——” She stopped, her lovely face suffused with blushes. “I’ve learned—since then. And you mustn’t make my—mistake. And, Jane dear,” she leaned over the younger girl like some splendid angel, “don’t worry about material things. Baldy and I will want you always with us——”
Jane sat up. “Are you going to marry Baldy?”
“I am,” sighing a little, “some day, when his ship comes in. He isn’t willing to share my cargo—yet.”
“He loves you,” said Jane, “dearly.”
Edith bent down and kissed her. “I know,” she said, “and my heart sings it.”
When Edith went away, they had not touched again on the question of Jane’s marriage. Jane, lying awake in the dark, reflected that of course Edith could not know of her debt to Frederick. No one knew except Baldy.
In the morning Towne had gone when Jane came down. She and Edith had had breakfast in their rooms—and there had been a great rose on Jane’s tray, with a note twisted about the stem—“To my golden girl.” Her lover had called her up by the house telephone, and had told her he was leaving for New York at noon. “A telegram has just come. I’ll see you the moment I get back.”