"I know, I know all this, dear George," I said. "Claude Bainrothe
addressed Evelyn before he knew me, and she refused him. Nor have I
craved the honor, this is all that can be said as yet, of being her
successor." I faltered here. "Let this satisfy you for the present. He
has not spoken to me."
"But you love him--love him, Miriam!" he groaned. "Oh, I saw it plainly
to-night, and, what is far more terrible and hard to bear, he saw it
too! He was watching you from the corner of his furtive, downcast eye
when he was speaking of going to Copenhagen, and a smile trembled
around his mouth when you turned so pale--white as a poplar-leaf,
Miriam, when the wind blows it over! If I were a woman I would cut out
my heart rather than open it thus to the gaze of any man, far less one
like that, shallow, selfish, superficial. O Miriam! not worthy of you at
all--not fit to tie your shoe-latchet!"
"George, you overrate me, you always did, and--and--you undervalue Mr.
Bainrothe, believe me; nay, I am sure you do. Let us part now, George.
My father is calling me, you hear. Go home, my own dear boy, and rest
and pray. Oh, be convinced that I love you better than all the world,
except those I _ought_ to love more.--Yes, yes, papa! I am
coming.--Good-night, dear George."
And I kissed his clammy brow, hastening in the next moment to my
father's side, who, missing me, could not rest in this new phase of his
until I was forthcoming.
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