Keep to yourself to-day as much as you can, dear, for twelve
hours--until--until--you hear from me, you know. It will be all right
then," she added, lifting her eyelids with a sudden odd resemblance to
her father's look of drowsy pain, which Ford had never noticed before.
"Promise me that, dear, won't you?"
With a mental reservation he promised hurriedly--preoccupied in his
wonder why she seemed to avoid his explanation, in his desire to know
what had happened, in the pride that had kept him from asking more or
volunteering a defence, and in his still haunting sense of having been
wronged. Yet he could not help saying as he caught and held her hand:--
"YOU have not doubted me, Cressy? YOU have not allowed this infamous
raking up of things that are past and gone to alter your feelings?"
She looked at him abstractedly. "You think it might alter ANYBODY'S
feelings, then?"
"Nobody's who really loved another"--he stammered.
"Don't let us talk of it any more," she said suddenly stretching out
her arms, lifting them above her head with a wearied gesture, and then
letting them fall clasped before her in her old habitual fashion.
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