“And you, too, had loved her!”
Silverthorn vouchsafed no reply.
Vibbard, struggling with remorse, uncertainty, and a dimly returning hope, brought himself to speak once more, hesitatingly.
“What did she say?”
“At first she would not tolerate my proposal. I saw there was a conflict in her mind. Something warned me what it was, yet I could not help fancying that she might really be unwilling to give me up. So then I said I had made up my mind any way, as things stood, to return you your money. I—forgive me, Bill, but it was not treachery to you—only justice to all—I asked her if she would wish to marry me as I was, poor and without a future.”
“And she—” asked Vibbard, trembling. “What did she say?”
Silverthorn let the pocket-book fall, and buried his face in his hands. It was answer enough for his friend.
Vibbard came over and knelt beside him, and tried to rouse him. He stroked his pale brown hair, and called him repeatedly “Dear old boy.”
“Poor Thorny, I wish I could do something for you,” he said, gently. “Are you sure you understood her?”
The other suddenly looked up.