When it did, she gazed from one to the other with a helpless,
wounded look, and blushed as if the shame were her own.
Edna Hill's eyes blazed with indignation, then softened in pity for her
friend. She turned to Larcher in a very calling-to-account manner.
"Why didn't you tell me all this before?"
"I didn't think it was necessary. And besides, he never told me about
the letters till the night before last."
"And all this time that poor young man has thought Florence tossed him
over because of some ridiculous notion about bad luck?"
"Well, more or less,--and the general fickleness of the sex."
"General fick--! And you, having seen Florence, let him go on thinking
so?"
"But I didn't know Miss Kenby was the lady he meant. If you'd only told
me it was for her you wanted news of him--"
"Stupid, you might have guessed! But I think it's about time he had some
news of _her_. He ought to know she wasn't actuated by any such paltry,
childish motive."
"By George, I agree with you!" cried Larcher, with a sudden energy. "If
you could see the effect on the man, of that false impression, Miss
Kenby! I don't mean to say that his state of mind is entirely due to
that; he had causes enough before. But it needed only that to take away
all consolation, to stagger his faith, to kill his interest in life."
"Has it made him so bitter?" asked Florence, sadly.
"I shouldn't call the effect bitterness. He has too lofty a mind for
strong resentment.
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