“Oh no! You needn't think of them with Christopher,” Rose said, seriously. “That's just it! He would so completely look after yours! It's his, in this regard, that need consideration.”
“Well—I'll consider Christopher's interests,” Edith said, quietly.
She remembered perfectly the letter she had written—which was in an ugly young man's pocket! It had been:
“DEAR CHRISTOPHER,—Do you think you really want me? If you are very sure, I am willing. I don't care for anybody else, so perhaps I can learn to care for you.
“The only thing is, you will spoil me, and they've done that at home already! and Rose says I need a strong hand! So in your interests—” and then it had blown away!
When Rose, after some desultory talk, went back to her room, Edith wrote another letter:
“DEAR CHRISTOPHER,—I know you have made a mistake. I don't care for you—to marry you—a bit, but I like you, oh, a quantity! We have always been such friends, and we always will be, won't we? but not that way.
“Some day you will be very happy with some one else who will suit you better. Then you will know how right I am.
“With kindest wishes,