Then she spelled to Pierre this: "It is
singing to me. We imperfect things love each other."
"And what about loving Hawley, then?" Pierre persisted. She did not
reply, but a strange look came upon her, and in the pause Hilton came
from the house and stood beside them. At this, Pierre lighted a
cigarette, and with a good-natured nod to Hilton, walked away.
Hilton stooped over her, pale and eager. "Ida," he gestured, "will you
answer me now? Will you be my wife?"
She drew herself together with a little shiver. "No," was her steady
reply. She ruled her face into stillness, so that it showed nothing of
what she felt. She came to her feet wearily, and drawing down a cool
flowering branch of chestnut, pressed it to her cheek. "You do not love
me?" he asked nervously.
"I am going to marry Luke Hawley," was her slow answer. She spelled the
words. She used no gesture to that. The fact looked terribly hard and
inflexible so. Hilton was not a vain man, and he believed he was not
loved. His heart crowded to his throat.
"Please go away, now," she begged with an anxious gesture. While the
hand was extended, he reached and brought it to his lips, then quickly
kissed her on the forehead, and walked away. She stood trembling, and as
the fingers of one hand hung at her side, they spelled mechanically these
words: "It would spoil his life.
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