and I never will—that's one comfort for you, for the future, if you want to know. Father and mother keep very quiet, looking at me as if I were one of the lost, with hard, screwing eyes, like gimlets. To me they scarcely say anything, but they talk it all over with each other, and try and decide what is to be done. It's my belief that father has written to the people in Washington—what do you call it? the Department—to have you moved away from Brooklyn,—to have you sent to sea."
"I guess that won't do much good. They want me in Brooklyn, they don't want me at sea."
"Well, they are capable of going to Europe for a year, on purpose to take me," Georgina said.
"How can they take you, if you won't go? And if you should go, what good would it do, if you were only to find me here when you came back, just the same as you left me?"
"Oh, well!" said Georgina, with her lovely smile, "of course they think that absence would cure me of—cure me of—" And she paused, with a certain natural modesty, not saying exactly of what.
"Cure you of what, darling? Say it, please say it," the young man murmured, drawing her hand surreptitiously into his arm.
"Of my absurd infatuation!"
"And would it, dearest?"
"Yes, very likely. But I don't mean to try. I sha n't go to Europe,—not when I don't want to. But it's better I should see less of you,—even that I should appear—a little—to give you up."
