Her bedroom was situated in the front of the house. The man she was looking for presently passed within her range of view from the window, on his way to take a morning walk in the park. She followed him immediately.
“Good-morning, Mr. Morris.”
He raised his hat and bowed—without speaking, and without looking at her.
“We resemble each other in one particular,” she proceeded, graciously; “we both like to breathe the fresh air before breakfast.”
He said exactly what common politeness obliged him to say, and no more—he said, “Yes.”
Some girls might have been discouraged. Francine went on.
“It is no fault of mine, Mr. Morris, that we have not been better friends. For some reason, into which I don’t presume to inquire, you seem to distrust me. I really don’t know what I have done to deserve it.”
“Are you sure of that?” he asked—eying her suddenly and searchingly as he spoke.
Her hard face settled into a rigid look; her eyes met his eyes with a stony defiant stare. Now, for the first time, she knew that he suspected her of having written the anonymous letter. Every evil quality in her nature steadily defied him. A hardened old woman could not have sustained the shock of discovery with a more devilish composure than this girl displayed. “Perhaps you will explain yourself,” she said.
“I have explained myself,” he answered.