"What for?"
"Why—why—I meant to tell you, Lester, that I didn't think I ought to stay here any longer this way.
I didn't think it was right.
I thought I'd tell you, but I couldn't.
I wrote you a letter."
"A letter," he exclaimed.
"What the deuce are you talking about?
Where is the letter?"
"There," she said, mechanically pointing to a small center-table where the letter lay conspicuous on a large book.
"And you were really going to leave me, Jennie, with just a letter?" said Lester, his voice hardening a little as he spoke.
"I swear to heaven you are beyond me.
What's the point?"
He tore open the envelope and looked at the beginning.
"Better send Vesta from the room," he suggested.
She obeyed.
Then she came back and stood there pale and wide-eyed, looking at the wall, at the trunks, and at him.
Lester read the letter thoughtfully. He shifted his position once or twice, then dropped the paper on the floor.
"Well, I'll tell you, Jennie," he said finally, looking at her curiously and wondering just what he was going to say.
Here again was his chance to end this relationship if he wished.
He couldn't feel that he did wish it, seeing how peacefully things were running.
They had gone so far together it seemed ridiculous to quit now.
He truly loved her—there was no doubt of that.
Still he did not want to marry her—could not very well.
She knew that.
Her letter said as much.
"You have this thing wrong," he went on slowly.
"I don't know what comes over you at times, but you don't view the situation right.
I've told you before that I can't marry you—not now, anyhow.
There are too many big things involved in this, which you don't know anything about.
I love you, you know that.
But my family has to be taken into consideration, and the business.
You can't see the difficulties raised on these scores, but I can.
Now I don't want you to leave me. I care too much about you.
I can't prevent you, of course. You can go if you want to.
But I don't think you ought to want to.
You don't really, do you?
Sit down a minute."
Jennie, who had been counting on getting away without being seen, was now thoroughly nonplussed.
To have him begin a quiet argument—a plea as it were.
It hurt her.
He, Lester, pleading with her, and she loved him so.
She went over to him, and he took her hand.
"Now, listen," he said.
"There's really nothing to be gained by your leaving me at present.
Where did you say you were going?"
"To Cleveland," she replied.
"Well, how did you expect to get along?"
"I thought I'd take papa, if he'd come with me—he's alone now—and get something to do, maybe."
"Well, what can you do, Jennie, different from what you ever have done?
You wouldn't expect to be a lady's maid again, would you?