“We’re not engaged,” said Katharine, after a pause.
“Katharine!” Cassandra cried.
“No, we’re not engaged,” Katharine repeated. “But no one knows it but ourselves.”
“But why—I don’t understand—you’re not engaged!” Cassandra said again. “Oh, that explains it! You’re not in love with him! You don’t want to marry him!”
“We aren’t in love with each other any longer,” said Katharine, as if disposing of something for ever and ever.
“How queer, how strange, how unlike other people you are, Katharine,” Cassandra said, her whole body and voice seeming to fall and collapse together, and no trace of anger or excitement remaining, but only a dreamy quietude.
“You’re not in love with him?”
“But I love him,” said Katharine.
Cassandra remained bowed, as if by the weight of the revelation, for some little while longer. Nor did Katharine speak. Her attitude was that of some one who wishes to be concealed as much as possible from observation. She sighed profoundly; she was absolutely silent, and apparently overcome by her thoughts.
“D’you know what time it is?” she said at length, and shook her pillow, as if making ready for sleep.