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 Suddenly she knew she had feared for months that he would not love her, that she was negligible to him…. For a moment she lost herself, basked in the happiness of it—was glad—glad he had unconsciously confessed his love. Somehow it was different from a formal confession, more excusable—that is the way she put it. A direct proposal from him would have affronted her—her inhibitions would have forced her to be affronted. Her pride would have aroused her—a Canfield—to resentment at a proffer of love from him—a Burke. But this was different, accidental, unpremeditated, excusable. It was as though she had discovered for herself a thing he chose to keep secret.

Angus, too, was conscious of the significance of his words; wondered in fear if Lydia understood the disclosure—feared that her acuteness could not mistake it…. No sooner had the knowledge of his love come to him than, following close upon it, came the certainty that it must be in vain. Lydia Canfield was not for him, never could be for him…. He clenched his hands behind him.

Lydia did not speak—she scrutinized the sidewalk, lifted her eyes to Angus’s, and dropped them again. She was agitated. The trip to Deal was forgotten…. It had been swallowed up in something infinitely more portentous, more