She knew that Cecily already repented of her request. Every time she handed Gretchen a letter from her lover, it was with a more reluctant action, a more wistful and appealing look.
She saw, but would not heed. Cecily had decided—the act was hers—let her abide by it!
In the meantime, every week she could write, with white lips and shaking hand, "I love you, Noel." Had not Cecily herself wished it?
"Madness! Of course, I know that," she thought; "but if I like to be mad just once before I go away to live out my dull, highly respectable life, who is there to hinder me? It's an inexpensive luxury. She'll tell him, of course, when they're married—though there'll be no occasion; he'll find it out quickly enough." She smiled scornfully. "But what does that matter? I shall be thousands of miles away by that time. I shall never know how he takes it, or what he thinks." And then she sealed the letter.
Even then, though it was early morning, she sat a long time at the table, quite still, her face buried in her hands. When she looked up, it was drawn and haggard.
"And I've come to be a thing like this," she whispered, with a slow self-scorn, "about a man who has forgotten my existence. And—I am Gretchen Verrol!"
V
As time went on, drawing nearer to the expiration of the three months before her cousin's departure, Mrs. Armstrong's lamentations became more and more frequent.
"Cecily, poor child, feels it dreadfully," she repeated. "She
