The confession broke from Cecily's lips hesitatingly, and then she laid one arm hopelessly against the window frame, and hid her wet eyes against it.
Gretchen did not speak for a minute.
"The letter, you mean?" she asked at length, quietly. "Well—there is nothing so dreadful about that, is there?"
"Oh, yes, there is—yes, there is—for me!" wailed Cecily. "You may read it." She held out the letter, looking up at Gretchen despairingly. "You'll see. He asks what I thought of some of those statues in Rome—and—and the pictures. And—I didn't think anything. Oh, Gretchen! I know I'm very stupid—but—I had no thoughts about them, except—I wondered why they kept broken statues in such grand places. But I can't tell him that, can I? because people, clever people, think they are beautiful—without noses—or anything. And all that he says about the scenery—and you know what my spelling is like—and oh, Gretchen! Don't—don't smile like that!"
Cecily shrank back into the corner of the window seat, and covered her face with both hands. Perhaps she had never made such a long speech before—but Gretchen had seemed sorry.
There was quite a long silence. The crisp paper crackled as Miss Verrol turned the sheets; still Cecily did not look up.
"Well, do you want me to answer it for you?" The question was accompanied by a short laugh.
The girl's hands dropped from her face in a second, and her eyes sought Gretchen's inquiringly—incredulously.
"Gretchen—do you mean it? Would you? Not really?"
"Where is that silk gauze of yours?" asked Gretchen, crossing the room and stooping over a drawer.
"In that box," replied Cecily, sighing—the chance of relief was gone then.
