“No, I shall ask Griff.”
Dan smiled, doubtfully. “That will settle it, if you believe what he tells you.”
“His denial will be quite sufficient for me, Mr. Oakley,” with chilly politeness.
There was a long pause, during which Dan looked at the carpet, and Miss Emory at nothing in particular. He realized how completely he had separated himself from the rest of the world in her eyes. The hopelessness of his love goaded him on. He turned to her with sudden gentleness and said, penitently: “Won't you forgive me?”
“I have nothing to forgive, Mr. Oakley,” with lofty self-denial, and again Dan smiled doubtfully. Her saying so did not mean all it should have meant to him.
He swept his hand across his face with a troubled gesture. “I don't know what to do,” he observed, ruefully. “The turf seems knocked from under my feet.”
“It must have been a dreadful ordeal to pass through alone,” she said. “We are so distressed for your sake.” And she seemed so keenly sympathetic that Dan's heart gave a great bound in his breast. He put aside his mounting bitterness against her.
“I don't know why I came to see you to-day. I just wanted to, and so I came. I don't want to force a friendship.”
Miss Emory murmured that no excuse was necessary.
“I am not too sure of that. I must appear bent on exhibiting myself and my woes, but I can't go into retirement, and I can't let people see I'm hurt.”