“Then it must be Miss Sadler.”
“Miss Sadler would willingly change me—if she could,” said Cynthia, a little bitterly. “How did you find out I was at Miss Sadler's?”
“Morton Browne told me yesterday,” said Bob. “I felt like punching his head.”
“What did he tell you?” she asked with some concern.
“He said that you were here, visiting the Merrills, among other things, and said that you knew me.”
The “other things” Mr. Browne had said were interesting, but flippant. He had seen Bob at a college club and declared that he had met a witch of a country girl at the Merrills. He couldn't make her out, because she had refused to see him every time he called again. He had also repeated Cynthia's remark about Bob's father not being quite the biggest man in his part of the country, and ventured the surmise that she was the daughter of a rival mill owner.
“Why didn't you let me know you were in Boston?” said Bob, reproachfully.
“Why should I?” asked Cynthia, and she could not resist adding, “Didn't you find it out when you went to Brampton—to see me?”
“Well,” said he, getting fiery red, “the fact is—I didn't go to Brampton.”
“I'm glad you were sensible enough to take my advice, though I suppose that didn't make any difference. But—from the way you spoke, I should have thought nothing could have kept you away.”