"Don't—" she jerked her hand away. "Neale might come in and think you—loved me. And you don't, Merry."
He was dumb. He knew he did not love her. And he knew that if he did, she would never marry Winslow.
She went away then, leaving him with a strange sense of desolateness. He felt useless, set aside. He was good for neither work nor play, and nobody cared.
He was glad when the others came in and dinner was served. It was at dinner that Winslow announced the engagement. He smiled complacently, and the hairs of his white head sparkled like icicles in the light of the candles. The old comparison of May and December occurred to Meriweather. To see Sally's youth, April-like in a daffodil frock, was to foretell the blight of Winslow's wintriness.
Sally carried it off well, head up, light words flung here and there in answer to congratulations. After dinner she went to the piano and sang love songs with Winslow standing beside her.
"Very bad taste, I call it," said Miss Anne to her niece, "to pretend there's any romance."
Hildegarde blazed. "It's a dreadful thing for her to marry him."
"Oh, Neale's not so bad," Miss Anne defended, "but it is such a clear case of Sally's selling herself."
Mrs. Hulburt bore down on them. "I know you are criticizing me, Anne, for letting Sally do it. But I was as surprised as you when she told me."
"You ought to put her to bed on bread and water."
"My dear, she'll be much happier than to throw herself away on a poor man. I know Sally."
