“Do you despise me?” demanded Leslie in a fierce, low tone. “Do you think I’m wicked—unwomanly? Or do you think I’m just plain fool?”
“I don’t think you any of those things. Come, dear, let’s just talk it over sensibly, as we might talk over any other of the great crises of life. You’ve been brooding over it and let yourself drift into a morbid view of it. You know you have a little tendency to do that about everything that goes wrong, and you promised me that you would fight against it.”
“But—oh, it’s so—so shameful,” murmured Leslie. “To love him—unsought—and when I’m not free to love anybody.”
“There’s nothing shameful about it. But I’m very sorry that you have learned to care for Owen, because, as things are, it will only make you more unhappy.”
“I didn’t learn to care,” said Leslie, walking on and speaking passionately. “If it had been like that I could have prevented it. I never dreamed of such a thing until that day, a week ago, when he told me he had finished his book and must soon go away. Then—then I knew. I felt as if someone had struck me a terrible blow. I didn’t say anything—I couldn’t speak—but I don’t know what I looked like. I’m so afraid my face betrayed me. Oh, I would die of shame if I thought he knew—or suspected.”
Anne was miserably silent, hampered by her deductions from her conversation with Owen. Leslie went on feverishly, as if she found relief in speech.
