Marion Holmes was not there, and Darrell, meeting her on the street the
next day, playfully took her to task.
"Why were you not at dinner yesterday?" he inquired; "have you no more
regard for my feelings than to leave me to be sandwiched between the
parson's wife and old Mrs. Pettigrew?"
"I might have gone had I known such a fate as that awaited you," she
replied, laughing; "but," she added with some spirit, thinking it best
to come to the point at once, "I can see no reason for thrusting myself
into your family gatherings simply because you and I were good comrades
in the past."
"Were we not something more than merely good comrades, Marion?" he
asked, anxious to ascertain her real feelings towards himself; "it
seemed to me we were, or at least that we thought we were."
"That may be," she answered, her color rising slightly; "but if we
thought so then, that is no reason for deceiving ourselves any longer."
She intended to mislead him, and she did.
"Very well," he replied; "we will not deceive ourselves; we will have a
good understanding with ourselves and with each other. Is there any
reason why we should not be at least good comrades now?"
"I know of none," she answered, meeting his eyes without wavering.
"Then let us act as such, and not like two silly children, afraid of
each other. Is that a compact?" he asked, smiling and extending his
hand.
"It is," she replied, smiling brightly in return as their hands clasped,
thus by word and act renouncing her dearest hopes without his dreaming
of the sacrifice.