“Heaven knows I meant nothing but what I said,” he answered, struggling stupidly with a confusion of desires which every man but no woman will understand. After eighteen hundred years, the man is still imperfectly monogamous. “Is there anything wrong in it?”
“Oh no! Not for you,” she said scornfully.
“I am very much in earnest,” he went on hopelessly, “in asking your opinion, your help, in regard to how I shall treat this affair.”
“And I am still more in earnest in telling you that I will give you no opinion, no help. I forbid you to recur to the subject.” He was silent, unable to drop his eyes from hers. “But for her,” continued Mrs. Bowen, “I will do anything in my power. If she asks my advice I will give it, and I will give her all the help I can.”
“Thank you,” said Colville vaguely.
“I will not have your thanks,” promptly retorted Mrs. Bowen, “for I mean you no kindness. I am trying to do my duty to Imogene, and when that is ended, all is ended. There is no way now for you to please me—as you call it—except to keep her from regretting what she has done.”
“Do you think I shall fail in that?” he demanded indignantly.
“I can offer you no opinion. I can’t tell what you will do.”
“There are two ways of keeping her from regretting what she has done; and perhaps the simplest and best way would be to free her from the consequences, as far as they’re involved in me,” said Colville.
Mrs. Bowen dropped herself back in her armchair. “If you choose to force these things upon me, I am a woman, and can’t help myself. Especially, I can’t help myself against a guest.”
“Oh, I will relieve you of my presence,” said Colville. “I’ve no wish to force anything upon you—least of all myself.” He rose, and moved toward the door.
She hastily intercepted him. “Do you think I will let you go without seeing Imogene? Do you understand me so little as that? It’s too late for you to go! You know what I think of all this, and I know, better than you, what you think. I shall play my part, and you shall play yours. I have refused to give you advice or help, and I never shall do it. But I know what my duty to her is, and I will fulfil it. No matter how distasteful it is to either of us, you must come here as before. The house is as free to you as ever—freer. And we are to be as good friends as ever—better. You can see Imogene alone or in my presence, and, as far as I am concerned, you shall consider yourself engaged or not, as you choose. Do you understand?”
“Not in the least,” said Colville, in the ghost of his old bantering manner. “But don’t explain, or I shall make still less of it.”
“I mean simply that I do it for Imogene and not for you.”
“Oh, I understand that you don’t do it for me.”
At this moment Imogene appeared between the folds of the portiere, and her timid, embarrassed glance from Mrs. Bowen to Colville was the first gleam of consolation that had visited him since he parted with her the night before. A thrill of inexplicable pride and fondness passed through his heart, and even the compunction that followed could not spoil its sweetness. But if Mrs. Bowen discreetly turned her head aside that she need not witness a tender greeting between them, the precaution was unnecessary. He merely went forward and took the girl’s hand, with a sigh of relief. “Good morning, Imogene,” he said, with a kind of compassionate admiration.
“Good morning,” she returned half-inquiringly.
She did not take a seat near him, and turned, as if for instruction, to Mrs. Bowen. It was probably the force of habit. In any case, Mrs. Bowen’s eyes gave no response. She bowed slightly to Colville, and began, “I must leave Imogene to entertain you for the present, Mr.—”
“No!” cried the girl impetuously; “don’t go.” Mrs. Bowen stopped. “I wish to speak with you—with you and Mr. Colville together. I wish to say—I don’t know how to say it exactly; but I wish to know—You asked him last night, Mrs. Bowen, whether he wished to consider it an engagement?”
“I thought perhaps you would rather hear from your mother—”
“Yes, I would be glad to know that my mother approved; but if she didn’t, I couldn’t help it. Mr. Colville said he was bound, but I was not. That can’t be. I wish to be bound, if he is.”
“I don’t quite know what you expect me to say.”
“Nothing,” said Imogene. “I merely wished you to know. And I don’t wish you to sacrifice anything to us. If you think best, Mr. Colville will not see me till I hear from home; though it won’t make any difference with me what I hear.”
“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t meet,” said Mrs. Bowen absently.
“If you wish it to have the same appearance as an Italian engagement—”
“No,” said Mrs. Bowen, putting her hand to her head with a gesture she had; “that would be quite unnecessary. It would be ridiculous under the circumstances. I have thought of it, and I have decided that the American way is the best.”
“Very well, then,” said Imogene, with the air of summing up; “then the only question is whether we shall make it known or not to other people.”
This point seemed to give Mrs. Bowen greater pause than any. She was a long time silent, and Colville saw that Imogene was beginning to chafe at her indecision. Yet he did not see the moment to intervene in a debate in which he found himself somewhat ludicrously ignored, as if the affair were solely the concern of these two women, and none of his.
“Of course, Mrs. Bowen,” said the girl haughtily, “if it will be disagreeable to you to have it known—”
