tempest died down at once and she merely said, very gently:
"She has refused him."
He looked at her. The black cloud lifted from his eyes, which turned blue again, and his gloomy frown gave way to his usual boyish expression, full of wide-eyed astonishment now. His features relaxed, his whole body relaxed; he gave a shiver and sat down, as though all his temper and rage were subsiding like a sudden storm that had arisen for no reason at all. And he asked, slowly:
"She . . . has refused him?"
"Yes. Of course, Bertha had nothing against it. But Marianne, when I spoke to her, declined at once. I did not insist. Poor Vreeswijck!"
"Yes, poor fellow!" he said, mechanically.
"I wanted to tell you, because . . ."
"Because what?"
"Because Vreeswijck is a friend and I thought it better that you should know. I meant to tell you this morning, before I started. But you went out . . ."
He looked at her again, with a keen glance, wondering if she was sincere or if there was anything behind her words; wondering what she thought, knew or guessed about him and Marianne; what she would really have liked; if it was a disappointment to her that Marianne had declined so promptly: so promptly that Constance had not insisted for a mo-
