“No, I did not. There was no reason why I should have.”
“There was every reason,” said Cynthia, “and you know it. Did you tell him why you came to Boston to-day?”
“No.”
“Why does he think you came?”
“He doesn't think anything about it,” said Bob. “He went off to Chicago yesterday to attend a meeting of the board of directors of a western railroad.”
“And so,” she said reproachfully, “you slipped off as soon as his back was turned. I would not have believed that of you, Bob. Do you think that was fair to him or me?”
Bob Worthington sprang to his feet and stood over her. She had spoken to a boy, but she had aroused a man, and she felt an amazing thrill at the result. The muscles in his face tightened, and deepened the lines about his mouth, and a fire was lighted about his eyes.
“Cynthia,” he said slowly, “even you shall not speak to me like that. If I had believed it were right, if I had believed that it would have done any good to you or me, I should have told my father the moment I got to Brampton. In affairs of this kind—in a matter of so much importance in my life,” he continued, choosing his words carefully, “I am likely to know whether I am doing right or wrong. If my mother were alive, I am sure that she would approve of this—this friendship.”
Having got so far, he paused. Cynthia felt that she was trembling, as though the force and feeling that was in him had charged her also.
“I did not intend to come so soon,” he went on, “but—I had a reason for coming. I knew that you did not want me.”