A question trembled on Aline’s blanched lips.
“Say it,” permitted Virginia.
“Do you mean that you are engaged to him—that you are going to marry Mr. Ridgway—without caring for him?”
“I don’t mean that at all. I like him immensely.”
“But—do you love him?” It was almost a cry—these low words wrung from the tortured heart.
“No fair,” warned her friend smilingly.
Aline rode in silence, her stricken face full of trouble. How could she, from her glass house, throw stones at a loveless marriage? But this was different from her own case! Nobody was worthy to marry her hero without giving the best a woman had to give. If she were a girl—a sudden tide of color swept her face; a wild, delirious tingle of joy flooded her veins—oh, if she were a girl, what a wealth of love could she give him! Clarity of vision had come to her in a blinding flash. Untutored of life, the knowledge of its meaning had struck home of the suddenest. She knew her heart now that it was too late; knew that she could never be indifferent to what concerned Waring Ridgway.
Aline caught at the courage behind her childishness, and accomplished her congratulations “You will be happy, I am sure. He is good.”
“Goodness does not impress me as his most outstanding quality,” smiled Miss Balfour.
“No, one never feels it emphasized. He is too free of selfishness to make much of his goodness. But one can’t help feeling it in everything he does and says.”