only marry him, his father would see them through until he finished college.
"I mustn't think of it. Not yet, Crispin. I don't even know that I—love you—"
While she would not promise, she had been glad of his sympathy and strength, and had found herself leaning on them.
So it had been settled. In the morning she would tell her father that she was going. No more than that. It would not be easy to tell him, but it must be done.
She was startled to hear Carew's voice on the stairs. "All alone in the dark, Hildegarde?"
He came up and stood beside her. "Your mother always waited for me on this landing when I came up to dress for dinner. It is because of her that there are never any lights. She said it spoiled the view of the sky. After she left, the window seemed blank."
She wondered if he expected her to sympathize. His hand was on her shoulder, but she drew away a little.
"If you had never let her go, I should have looked out of this window when I was a child. And I should have met you when you came to dress for dinner."
His voice had a note of surprise. "You say that as if you blamed me."
"It is something to think of, isn't it?" There was a touch of hardness in her tone.
He turned and looked at her, trying to pierce the shadows. "Why talk of that now? We've had it all out. Do you suppose I don't think of it? Of what I've missed. If you could know how often I've longed for a child to go up and down these stairs!"
She had a wild feeling that she was going to be sorry
