"
"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.
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