He lowered his head, staring at the black leaf-pattern on the sunny path at their feet. “Mistakes are always easy to make; but if I had made one of the kind you suggest, is it likely that I should be imploring you to hasten our marriage?”
She looked downward too, disturbing the pattern with the point of her sunshade while she struggled for expression. “Yes,” she said at length. “You might want—once for all—to settle the question: it’s one way.”
Her quiet lucidity startled him, but did not mislead him into thinking her insensible. Under her hat-brim he saw the pallor of her profile, and a slight tremor of the nostril above her resolutely steadied lips.
“Well—?” he questioned, sitting down on the bench, and looking up at her with a frown that he tried to make playful.
She dropped back into her seat and went on: “You mustn’t think that a girl knows as little as her parents imagine. One hears and one notices—one has one’s feelings and ideas. And of course, long before you told me that you cared for me, I’d known that there was someone else you were interested in; everyone was talking about it two years ago at Newport. And once I saw you sitting together on the verandah at a dance—and when she came back into the house her face was sad, and I felt sorry for her; I remembered it afterward, when we were engaged.”
Her voice had sunk almost to a whisper, and she sat clasping and unclasping her hands about the handle of her sunshade. The young man laid his upon them with a gentle pressure; his heart dilated with an inexpressible relief.
“My dear child—was that it? If you only knew the truth!”
She raised her head quickly. “Then there is a truth I don’t know?”
He kept his hand over hers. “I meant, the truth about the old story you speak of.”