XI

“Evie, what do you think made Mr. Strange rush away like that?  Your uncle says he didn’t have to—­that he might just as well have stayed in town.”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” was Evie’s truthful response, as she flitted about the dining-room table arranging the flowers before luncheon.

“Your uncle thinks you do,” Mrs. Jarrott said, leaning languidly back in an arm-chair.  Her tone and manner implied that the matter had nothing to do with her, though she was willing to speak of it.  This was as far as she could come to showing an interest in anything outside herself since the boys died.  She would not have brought up the subject now if the girl’s pallor during the last few days had not made them uneasy.

“I haven’t the least idea,” Miss Colfax declared.  “I was just as much surprised as you were, Aunt Helen.”

“Your uncle thinks you must have said something to him—­”

“I didn’t.  I didn’t say anything to him whatever.  Why should I?  He’s nothing to me.”

“Of course he’s nothing to you, if you’re engaged to Billy Merrow.”

Miss Colfax leaned across the table, taking a longer time than necessary to give its value to a certain rose.

“I’m not engaged to him now,” she said, as if after reflection—­“not in my own mind, that is.”

“But you are in his, I suppose.”

“Well, I can’t help that, can I?”

“Not unless you write and tell him it’s all over.”

Miss Colfax stood still, a large red flower raised in protestation.

“That would be the cruellest thing I ever heard of,” she exclaimed, with conviction.  “I don’t see how you can bear to make the suggestion.”

“Then what are you going to do about it?”

“I needn’t do anything just yet.  There’s no hurry—­till I get back to New York.”

“Do you mean to let him go on thinking—?”

“He’d much rather.  Whenever I tell him, it will be too soon for him.  There’s no reason why he should know earlier than he wants to.”

“But is that honor, dear?”

“How can I tell?” At so unreasonable a question the blue eyes clouded with threatening tears.  “I can’t go into all those fine points, Aunt Helen, do you see?  I’ve just got to do what’s right.”

Mrs. Jarrot rose with an air of helplessness.  She loved her brother’s daughter tenderly enough, but she admitted to herself that she did not understand young girls.  Having borne only sons, she had never been called upon to struggle with the baffling.

“I hope you’re not going to tell any one, Aunt Helen,” Evie begged, as Mrs. Jarrott seemed about to leave the room.  “I shouldn’t want Uncle Jarrott to know, or Aunt Queenie, either.”

“I shall certainly spare them,” Mrs. Jarrott said, with what for her was asperity.  “They would be surprised, to say the least, after the encouragement you gave Mr. Strange.”