to her, as well as to me. But we must tell my mother. We can’t go on pretending.”
“That is entirely in your hands, of course,” said Rodney, with an immediate return to the manner of a formal man of honour.
“Very well,” said Katharine.
Directly he left her she would go to her mother, and explain that the engagement was at an end—or it might be better that they should go together?
“But, Katharine,” Rodney began, nervously attempting to stuff Cassandra’s sheets back into their envelope; “if Cassandra—should Cassandra—you’ve asked Cassandra to stay with you.”
“Yes; but I’ve not posted the letter.”
He crossed his knees in a discomfited silence. By all his codes it was impossible to ask a woman with whom he had just broken off his engagement to help him to become acquainted with another woman with a view to his falling in love with her. If it was announced that their engagement was over, a long and complete separation would inevitably follow; in those circumstances, letters and gifts were returned; after years of distance the severed couple met, perhaps at an evening party, and touched hands uncomfortably with an indifferent word or two. He would be cast off completely; he would have to trust to his own resources. He could never mention Cassandra to Katharine again; for months, and doubtless years, he would never see Katharine again; anything might happen to her in his absence.
Katharine was almost as well aware of his perplexities as he was. She knew in what direction complete generosity pointed the way; but pride—for to remain engaged to Rodney and to cover his experiments hurt what was nobler in her than mere vanity—fought for its life.
“I’m to give up my freedom for an indefinite time,” she thought, “in order that William may see Cassandra
