Meriweather had been daring. "Do you care so much for Harlowe?"
She had looked up at him, startled, and their eyes had held. And after a long pause, Hildegarde had said, with that startled air still upon her:
"I am not in love with him."
"Are you sure?"
She had nodded. "I have told him so over and over again. But he won't take 'no' for an answer. He says I am his. That I have belonged to him from the beginning of the world."
"Of course, you don't believe that?"
"Sometimes I do. And when I think of marriage it always seems as if it would be Crispin."
She had caught herself up. "I don't know why I am telling you all this. It doesn't seem quite right to tell it."
Yet she had told him. And there had been that moment when his eyes had held hers.
When they reached the Point, Sally agreed contentedly to tea and cinnamon toast. Meriweather was glad she did not demand muffins. His lip curled with laughter that the fact of eating or not eating muffins with Sally should matter. But it did. To such depths of sentimentality had he descended. Muffins and chocolate were the nectar and ambrosia of his romance!
When they came finally to the Inn, and he held the door open for Sally, there was the vision of Hildegarde, wrapped in his cape against the storm, his hand keeping her horse steady!
But this was Sally—! He went in with her, sat
