“No; we were alone in my own room.”
“Told any one else about it?”
“I told the doctor and Mrs. Bird. Henry couldn't remember it at all.”
“Couldn't remember about Morrison, or what made him mad at you?”
“Nothing.”
“And that's all about it?”
“Yes.”
The two men had talked across the stove at each other, practically ignoring the girl, who stood apart from them, gray in the face as her dress, and suppressing a passion which had turned her as rigid as stone.
“Now, Marcia,” said her father, kindly, “better go into the house. That's all there is of it.”
“No, that isn't all,” she answered. “Give me my ring, Bartley. Here's yours.” She slipped it off her finger, and put it into his mechanically extended hand.