“Au revoir.” His agreeable doubt whether her ideals of sisterliness would lead her to something more affectionate than a handclasp was merged in disappointment. The door swung open and she disappeared. Forbes went back to the cab in a dejection only partially dissipated by Mrs. Chandler’s note next day.
“Dear Mr. Forbes:
“Can’t you dine with us Friday? We have all enjoyed a good laugh over Diantha’s absurd mistake.
“Cordially yours,
“Agnes Byrd Chandler.”
Forbes’ uncertainty as to how far Mrs. Chandler was in her sister’s confidence was unenlightened three weeks later when he asked Diantha to marry him. He had waited three weeks, not from choice, but because he had been unable to induce that elusive young woman to listen to him earlier.
She looked past him, her changeful eyes sombre and sad like the sea under clouds. “I can’t say yes,” she murmured plaintively, “without owning up. And if I own up, you’ll want me to say no.”
“Diantha!” he faltered. Used as he was to feminine extravagance in speech, her words chilled him.
She turned her tragic gaze on him. “I knew it was you all the time.”
“I don’t understand.”