Colville got up. “This is ghastly! She mustn’t do it!”
“How can you help her doing it? If she thinks anything is right, she can’t help doing it. Who could?”
Colville thought to himself that he could have said; but he was silent. At the moment he was not equal to so much joke or so much truth; and Imogene went on—
“She’d be all the more strenuous about it if it were disagreeable, and rather than accept any relief from me she would die.”
“Is she—unkind to you?” faltered Colville.
“She is only too kind. You can feel that she’s determined to be so—that she’s said she will have nothing to reproach herself with, and she won’t. You don’t suppose Mrs. Bowen would be unkind to anyone she disliked?”
“Ah, I didn’t know,” sighed Colville.
“The more she disliked them, the better she would use them. It’s because our engagement is so distasteful to her that she’s determined to feel that she did nothing to oppose it.”
“But how can you tell that it’s distasteful, then?”
“She lets you feel it by—not saying anything about it.”
“I can’t see how—”
“She never speaks of you. I don’t believe she ever mentions your name. She asks me about the places where I’ve been, and about the people—everyone but you. It’s very uncomfortable.”
“Yes,” said Colville, “it’s uncomfortable.”
“And if I allude to letters from home, she merely presses her lips together. It’s perfectly wretched.”
“I see. It’s I whom she dislikes, and I would do anything to please her. She must know that,” mused Colville aloud. “Imogene!” he exclaimed, with a sudden inspiration. “Why shouldn’t I go away?”
“Go away?” she palpitated. “What should I do?”
The colours faded from his brilliant proposal. “Oh, I only meant till something was settled—determined—concluded; till this terrible suspense was over.” He added hopelessly, “But nothing can be done!”
“I proposed,” said Imogene, “that we should all go away. I suggested Via Reggio—the doctor said she ought to have sea air—or Venice; but she wouldn’t hear of it. No; we must wait.”
“Yes, we must wait,” repeated Colville hollowly. “Then nothing can be done?”
“Why, haven’t you said it?”
“Oh yes—yes. I can’t go away, and you can’t. But couldn’t we do something—get up something?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean, couldn’t we—amuse her somehow? help her to take her mind off herself?”
Imogene stared at him rather a long time. Then, as if she had satisfied herself in her own mind, she shook her head. “She wouldn’t submit to it.”
“No; she seems to take everything amiss that I do,” said Colville.
“She has no right to do that,” cried Imogene. “I’m sure that you’re always considering her, and proposing to do things for her. I won’t let you humble yourself, as if you had wronged her.”
“Oh, I don’t call it humbling. I—I should only be too happy if I could do anything that was agreeable to her.”
“Very well, I will tell her,” said the girl haughtily. “Shall you object to my joining you in your amusements, whatever they are? I assure you I will be very unobtrusive.”
“I don’t understand all this,” replied Colville. “Who has proposed to exclude you? Why did you tell me anything about Mrs. Bowen if you didn’t want me to say or do something? I supposed you did; but I’ll withdraw the offensive proposition, whatever it was.”
“There was nothing offensive. But if you pity her so much, why can’t you pity me a little?”
“I didn’t know anything was the matter with you. I thought you were enjoying yourself—”
“Enjoying? Keeping you up at dances till you drop asleep whenever you sit down? And then coming home and talking to a person who won’t mention your name! Do you call that enjoying? I can’t speak of you to anyone; and no one speaks to me—”
“If you like, I will talk to you on the subject,” Colville essayed, in dreary jest.
“Oh, don’t joke about it! This perpetual joking, I believe it’s that that’s wearing me out. When I come to you for a little comfort in circumstances that drive me almost distracted, you want to amuse Mrs. Bowen, and when I ask to be allowed to share in the amusement, you laugh at me! If you don’t understand it all, I’m sure I don’t.”
“Imogene!”
“No! It’s very strange. There’s only one explanation. You don’t care for me.”
“Not care for you!” cried Colville, thinking of his sufferings in the past fortnight.
“And I would have made any—any sacrifice for you. At least I wouldn’t have made you show yourself a mean and grudging person if you had come to me for a little sympathy.”
“O poor child!” he cried, and his heart ached with the sense that she really was nothing but an unhappy child. “I do sympathise with you, and I see how hard it is for you to manage with Mrs. Bowen’s dislike for me. But you mustn’t think of it. I dare say it will be different; I’ve no doubt we can get her to look at me in some brighter light. I—” He did not know what he should urge next; but he goaded his invention, and was able to declare that if they loved each other they need not regard anyone else. This flight, when accomplished, did not strike him as very original effect, and it was with a dull surprise that he saw it sufficed for her.
“No; no one!” she exclaimed, accepting the platitude as if it were now uttered for the first time. She dried her eyes and smiled. “I will tell Mrs. Bowen how you feel and what you’ve said, and I know she will appreciate your generosity.”
“Yes,” said Colville pensively; “there’s nothing I won’t propose doing for people.”
She suddenly clung to him, and would not let him go. “Oh, what is the matter?” she
