Miss G. returns to her former place with a wounded air, and for a moment neither speaks. Finally she asks very meekly, "And there's no danger from the front?"
Mr. R., coldly.—"No."
Miss G., after some little noises and movements meant to catch Mr. R.'s attention.—"Of course, I never meant to imply that you were intentionally careless or forgetful."
Mr. R., still very coldly.—"Thank you."
Miss G.—"I always did justice to your good-heartedness, Allen; you're perfectly lovely that way; and I know that you would be sorry if you knew you had wounded my feelings, however accidentally." She droops her head so as to catch a sidelong glimpse of his face, and sighs, while she nervously pinches the top of her parasol, resting the point on the floor. Mr. R. makes no answer. "That about the cigar-case might have been a mistake; I saw that myself, and, as you explain it, why, it was certainly very kind and very creditable to—to your thoughtfulness. It was thoughtful."
Mr. R.—"I am grateful for your good opinion."
Miss G.—"But do you think it was exactly—it was quite—nice, not to tell me that your brother's engagement was to be kept, when you know, Allen, I can't bear to blunder in such things?" Tenderly, "Do you? You can't say it was."
Mr. R.—"I never said it was."
Miss G., plaintively.—"No, Allen. That's what I always admired in your character. You always owned up. Don't you think it's easier for men to own up than it is for women?"
Mr. R.—"I don't know. I never knew any woman to do it."