Was it that deep down, somewhere pushed back in the black recesses of the soul, there was the thought lurking that if Charles prospered in his wooing then Harold Denver would still be free?  How mean, how unmaidenly, how unsisterly the thought!  She crushed it down and thrust it aside, but still it would push up its wicked little head.  She crimsoned with shame at her own baseness, as she turned once more to her companion.

“I really do not know,” she said.

“She is not engaged?”

“Not that I know of.”

“You speak hesitatingly.”

“Because I am not sure.  But he may ask.  She cannot but be flattered.”

“Quite so.  I tell him that it is the most practical compliment which a man can pay to a woman.  He is a little shy, but when he sets himself to do it he will do it.  He is very much in love with her, I assure you.  These little lively people always do attract the slow and heavy ones, which is nature’s device for the neutralizing of bores.  But they are all going in.  I think if you will allow me that I will just take the opportunity to tell him that, as far as you know, there is no positive obstacle in the way.”

“As far as I know,” Clara repeated, as the widow moved away to where the players were grouped round the net, or sauntering slowly towards the house.  She rose to follow her, but her head was in a whirl with new thoughts, and she sat down again.  Which would be best for Ida, Harold or Charles?  She thought it over with as much solicitude as a mother who plans for her only child.  Harold had seemed to her to be in many ways the noblest and the best young man whom she had known.  If ever she was to love a man it would be such a man as that.  But she must not think of herself.  She had reason to believe that both these men loved her sister.  Which would be the best for her?  But perhaps the matter was already decided.  She could not forget the scrap of conversation which she had heard the night before, nor the secret which her sister had refused to confide to her.  If Ida would not tell her, there was but one person who could.  She raised her eyes and there was Harold Denver standing before her.

“You were lost in your thoughts,” said he, smiling.  “I hope that they were pleasant ones.”

“Oh, I was planning,” said she, rising.  “It seems rather a waste of time as a rule, for things have a way of working themselves out just as you least expect.”

“What were you planning, then?”

“The future.”

“Whose?”

“Oh, my own and Ida’s.”

“And was I included in your joint futures?

“I hope all our friends were included.”

“Don’t go in,” said he, as she began to move slowly towards the house.  “I wanted to have a word.  Let us stroll up and down the lawn.  Perhaps you are cold.  If you are, I could bring you out a shawl.”

“Oh, no, I am not cold.”