I was here for--when he
chose. I assure you he didn't want me at all until I showed him that he
couldn't have me."
"But he did, you know," said Chevenix; "he does. He was sure of you all
through, from the beginning, as you say. That's why he didn't write or
expect letters from you. He nattered himself that he was secure. Poor old
Nevile!" He felt sorry now for Ingram. She was really adamantine.
She arose, with matches in her hand, knelt before the fire and kindled it.
She blew into it with her mouth, and watched the climbing flames. "I don't
think you need pity Nevile, really," she said. "He will always be happy.
But I am going to be made unhappy." She proclaimed her fate as a fact in
which she had no concern at all. Chevenix rose and paced the room.
"Well, you know--I must be allowed to say--your happiness is so entirely
in your own hands. It's difficult--I've no right to suggest--to interfere
in any way. I'm nothing at all, of course--"
"You are my friend, I hope," she said, watching the young fire--still on
her knees before it, worshipping it, as it seemed. Chevenix expanded his
chest.
"You make me very proud. I thank you for that. Yes, I am your friend.
That's why I risk your friendship by asking you something.
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