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"
Yes. I don't know why, but she can't bear me; and he can't, either."
There I know you're wrong," I said warmly. "On the contrary, John is very
"
fond of you."
"Oh, yes--John. I meant Lawrence. Not, of course, that I care whether
Lawrence hates me or not. Still, it's rather horrid when no one loves you,
isn't it?"
"But they do, Cynthia dear," I said earnestly. "I'm sure you are mistaken.
Look, there is John--and Miss Howard--"
Cynthia nodded rather gloomily. "Yes, John likes me, I think, and of course
Evie, for all her gruff ways, wouldn't be unkind to a fly. But Lawrence never
speaks to me if he can help it, and Mary can hardly bring herself to be civil
to me. She wants Evie to stay on, is begging her to, but she doesn't want
me, and--and--I don't know what to do." Suddenly the poor child burst out
crying.
I don't know what possessed me. Her beauty, perhaps, as she sat there, with
the sunlight glinting down on her head; perhaps the sense of relief at
encountering someone who so obviously could have no connection with the
tragedy; perhaps honest pity for her youth and loneliness. Anyway, I leant
forward, and taking her little hand, I said awkwardly:
"Marry me, Cynthia."
Unwittingly, I had hit upon a sovereign remedy for her tears. She sat up at
once, drew her hand away, and said, with some asperity:
"
Don't be silly!"
I was a little annoyed.
I'm not being silly. I am asking you to do me the honour of becoming my
"
wife."
To my intense surprise, Cynthia burst out laughing, and called me a "funny
dear."
"It's perfectly sweet of you," she said, "but you know you don't want to!"
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