” She raised her hand to her cheek. “He does not love me. No. How terrible if he did! But he has not told. He will not tell.”

She longed to shout the words: “It is all right. It's a secret between us two for ever. Cecil will never hear.” She was even glad that Miss Bartlett had made her promise secrecy, that last dark evening at Florence, when they had knelt packing in his room. The secret, big or little, was guarded.

Only three English people knew of it in the world. Thus she interpreted her joy. She greeted Cecil with unusual radiance, because she felt so safe. As he helped her out of the carriage, she said:

“The Emersons have been so nice. George Emerson has improved enormously.”