"Why?" asked Ronald, innocently. "You know I would come from the end of the world to see you. I have, in fact."

"Yes, I know," said Joe wearily, wishing she knew exactly how to say what she was so thoroughly determined should be said.

"What is the matter, Joe?" asked Ronald, suddenly. He smiled rather nervously, but his smooth brow was a little contracted. He antic.i.p.ated mischief.

"There is something the matter, Ronald," she said at last, resolved to make short work of the revelation of her feelings. "There is something very much the matter."

"Well?" said Surbiton, beginning to be alarmed.

"You know, Ronald dear, somehow I think you have thought--honestly, I know you have thought for a long time that you were to marry me."

"Yes," said Ronald with a forced laugh, for he was frightened. "I have always thought so; I think so now."

"It is of no use to think it, Ronald dear," said Joe, turning very pale.

"I have thought of it too--thought it all over. I cannot possibly marry you, dear boy. Honestly, I cannot." Her voice trembled violently. However firmly she had decided within herself, it was a very bitter thing to say; she was so fond of him.

"What?" asked Ronald hoa.r.s.ely. But he turned red instead of pale. It was rather disappointment and anger that he felt at the first shock than sorrow or deep pain.

"Do not make me say it again," said Joe, entreatingly. She was not used to entreating so much as to commanding, and her voice quavered uncertainly.

"Do you mean to say," said Ronald, speaking loudly in his anger, and then dropping his voice as he remembered the pa.s.sers-by,--"do you mean to tell me, Joe, after all this, when I have come to America just because you told me to, that you will not marry me? I do not believe it. You are making fun of me."

"No, Ronald," Joe answered sorrowfully, but regaining her equanimity in the face of Surbiton's wrath, "I am in earnest. I am very, very fond of you, but I do not love you at all, and I never can marry you."

Ronald was red in the face, and he trod fast and angrily, tapping the pavement with his stick. He was very angry, but he said nothing.

"It is much better to be honest about it," said Joe, still very pale; and when she had spoken, her little mouth closed tightly.

"Oh, yes," said Ronald, who was serious by this time; "it is much better to be honest, now that you have brought me three thousand miles to hear what you have to say--much better. By all means."

"I am very sorry, Ronald," Joe answered. "I really did not mean you to come, and I am very sorry,--oh, more sorry than I can tell you,--but I cannot do it, you know."

"If you won't, of course you can't," he said. "Will you please tell me who he is?"

"Who?--what?" asked Joe, coldly. She was offended at the tone.

"The fellow you have pitched upon in my place," he said roughly.

Joe looked up into his face with an expression that frightened him. Her dark eyes flashed with an honest fire, He stared angrily at her as they walked slowly along.

"I made a mistake," she said slowly. "I am not sorry. I am glad. I would be ashamed to marry a man who could speak like that to any woman. I am sorry for you, but I am glad for myself." She looked straight into his eyes, until he turned away. For some minutes they went on in silence.

"I beg your pardon, Joe," said Ronald presently, in a subdued tone.

"Never mind, Ronald dear, I was angry," Joe answered. But her eyes were full of tears, and her lips quivered.

Again they went on in silence, but for a longer time than before. Joe felt that the blow was struck, and there was nothing to be done but to wait the result. It had been much harder than she had expected, because Ronald was so angry; she had expected he would be pained. He, poor fellow, was really startled out of all self-control. The idea that Joe could ever ultimately hesitate about marrying him had never seemed to exist, even among the remotest possibilities. But he was a gentleman in his way, and so he begged her pardon, and chewed the cud of his wrath in silence for some time.

"Joe," he said at last, with something of his usual calm, though he was still red, "of course you are really perfectly serious? I mean, you have thought about it?"

"Yes," said Joe; "I am quite sure."

"Then perhaps it is better we should go home," he continued.

"Perhaps so," said Joe. "Indeed, it would be better."

"I would like to see you again, Joe," he said in a somewhat broken fashion. "I mean, by and by, when I am not angry, you know."

Joe smiled at the simple honesty of the proposition.

"Yes, Ronald dear, whenever you like. You are very good, Ronald," she added.

"No, I am not good at all," said Ronald sharply, and they did not speak again until he left her at Miss Schenectady's door. Then she gave him her hand.

"I shall be at home until three o'clock," said she.

"Thanks," he answered; so they parted.

Joe had accomplished her object, but she was very far from happy. The consciousness of having done right did not outweigh the pain she felt for Ronald, who was, after all, her very dear friend. They had grown up together from earliest childhood, and so it had been settled; for Ronald was left an orphan when almost a baby, and had been brought up with his cousin as a matter of expediency. Therefore, as Joe said, it had always seemed so very natural. They had plighted vows when still in pinafores with a ring of gra.s.s, and later they had spoken more serious things, which it hurt Joe to remember, and now they were suffering the consequence of it all, and the putting off childish illusions was bitter.

It was not long before Sybil Brandon came in answer to Joe's invitation.

She knew what trouble her friend was likely to be in, and was ready to do anything in the world to make matters easier for her. Besides, though Sybil was so white and fair, and seemingly cold, she had a warm heart, and had conceived a very real affection for the impulsive English girl. Miss Schenectady had retired to put on another green ribbon, leaving the life of Mr. Ticknor open on the table, and the two girls met in the drawing-room. Joe was still pale, and the tears seemed ready to start from her eyes.

"Dear Sybil--it is so good of you to come," said she.

Sybil kissed her affectionately and put her arm round her waist. They stood thus for a moment before the fire.

"You have seen him?" Sybil asked presently. Joe had let her head rest wearily against her friend's shoulder, and nodded silently in answer.

Sybil bent down and kissed her soft hair, and whispered gently in her ear,--"Was it very hard, dear?"

"Oh, yes--indeed it was!" cried Joe, hiding her face on Sybil's breast.

Then, as though ashamed of seeming weak, she stood up boldly, turning slightly away as she spoke. "It was dreadfully hard," she continued; "but it is all over, and it is very much better--very, very much, you know."

"I am so glad," said Sybil, looking thoughtfully at the fire. "And now we will go out into the country and forget all about it--all about the disagreeable part of it."

"Perhaps," said Joe, who had recovered her equanimity, "Ronald may come too. You see he is so used to me that after a while it will not seem to make so very much difference after all."

"Of course, if he would," said Sybil, "it would be very nice. He will have to get used to the idea, and if he does not begin at once, perhaps he never may."

"He will be just the same as ever when he gets over his wrath," answered Joe confidently.

"Was he very angry?"

"Oh, dreadfully! I never saw him so angry."

"It is better when men are angry than when they are sorry," said Sybil.

"Something like this once happened to me, and he got over it very well. I think it was much more my fault, too," she added thoughtfully.

"Oh, I am sure you never did anything bad in your life," said Joe affectionately. "Nothing half so bad as this--my dear Snow Angel!" And so they kissed again and went to lunch.