She looked at him with her eyes wide open with surprise.
“What do you suppose a man said to me upstairs?” he asked her.
“What?”
“That you were engaged to someone.”
“What! That I was engaged! To whom, pray?” She looked incredulous.
“To a fellow I saw up there—Mr. ‘Router’, I think he said was his name.”
“The idea! Engaged to Mr. Router! You did not believe him, did you?”
“No, of course I did not; I trust you entirely.”
She buried her face in the roses she held in her hand, and did not speak. Her other hand rested on the arm of her chair next him. It was fine and white. He laid his on it firmly, and leaning towards her, said, “I beg your pardon for mentioning it. I am not surprised that you are hurt. Forgive me. I could not care for you so much if I did not believe in you.”
“It was so kind in you to send me these roses,” she said. “Aren’t they beautiful?”