It is true that such things happen, and no man or woman may foretell the day or the hour thereof.  Cynthia fled up the stairs, miraculously arriving unnoticed at her own room, and locked the door and flung herself on the bed.

Tears came—­tears of shame, of joy, of sorrow, of rejoicing, of regret; tears that burned, and yet relieved her, tears that pained while they comforted.  Had she sinned beyond the pardon of heaven, or had she committed a supreme act of right?  One moment she gloried in it, and the next upbraided herself bitterly.  Her heart beat with tumult, and again seemed to stop.  Such, though the words but faintly describe them, were her feelings, for thoughts were still to emerge out of chaos.  Love comes like a flame to few women, but so it came to Cynthia Wetherell, and burned out for a while all reason.

Only for a while.  Generations which had practised self-restraint were strong in her—­generations accustomed, too, to thinking out, so far as in them lay, the logical consequences of their acts; generations ashamed of these very instants when nature has chosen to take command.  After a time had passed, during which the world might have shuffled from its course, Cynthia sat up in the darkness.  How was she ever to face the light again?  Reason had returned.

So she sat for another space, and thought of what she had done—­thought with a surprising calmness now which astonished her.  Then she thought of what she would do, for there was an ordeal still to be gone through.  Although she shrank from it, she no longer lacked the courage to endure it.  Certain facts began to stand out clearly from the confusion.  The least important and most immediate of these was that she would have to face him, and incidentally face the world in the shape of the Merrill family, at supper.  She rose mechanically and lighted the gas and bathed her face and changed her gown.  Then she heard Susan’s voice at the door.

“Cynthia, what in the world are you doing?”

Cynthia opened the door and the sisters entered.  Was it possible that they did not read her terrible secret in her face?  Apparently not.  Susan was busy commenting on the qualities and peculiarities of Mr. Robert Worthington, and showering upon Cynthia a hundred questions which she answered she knew not how; but neither Susan nor Jane, wonderful as it may seem, betrayed any suspicion.  Did he send the flowers?  Cynthia had not asked him.  Did he want to know whether she read the newspapers?  He had asked Susan that, before Cynthia came.  Susan was ready to repeat the whole of her conversation with him.  Why did he seem so particular about newspapers?  Had he notions that girls ought not to read them?

The significance of Bob’s remarks about newspapers was lost upon Cynthia then.  Not till afterward did she think of them, or connect them with his unexpected visit.  Then the supper bell rang, and they went downstairs.