“Have I done anything to offend you lately, Sylvester?” she asked at length.
“Nothing that I am aware of,” he answered gravely.
“We don't seem to be such good friends,” she hazarded.
“I am sure you must be mistaken.”
The cold formality of the phrase was a knell to her hopes. She looked up somewhat piteously and met hard, unsympathetic eyes.
“I thought—you made me think—” she began. He raised his hand slightly to check her.
“If I did,” he said coldly, “I was wrong. I owe you all my apologies.” There was a moment's silence. “If I could say more, I would,” he added.
But a quickly gathering anger in the girl's heart suddenly broke out. She drew herself up, flaming-cheeked, with eyes flashing through the tears that would come.
“You have behaved horribly, cruelly, and I want never to see your face again.”
Sylvester bowed his head. A swift rustle of skirts, a sound of the door, and she was gone. He raised his head and drew rather a choking breath. He knew that Ella had just cause for reproach. But what could be done? The new budding love had been killed outright. He regarded her with aversion, with something akin even to horror. And his heart was as cold as a stone.