"Uncle Benny!"
"Don't see him!" Corvet repeated. "He's asked you to marry him, hasn't he?"
Connie could not refuse the answer. "Yes."
"And you?"
"Why—why, Uncle Benny, I haven't answered him yet."
"Then don't—don't; do you understand, Connie?"
She hesitated, frightened for him. "I'll—I'll tell you before I see him, if you want me to, Uncle Benny," she granted.
"But if you shouldn't be able to tell me then, Connie; if you shouldn't—want to then?" The humility of his look perplexed her; if he had been any other man—any man except Uncle Benny—she would have thought some shameful and terrifying threat hung over him; but he broke off sharply. "I must go home," he said uncertainly. "I must go home; then I'll come back. Connie, you won't give him an answer till I come back, will you?"
"No." He got her promise, half frightened, half bewildered; then he turned at once and went swiftly away from her.
She ran back to the door of her father's house. From there she saw him reach the corner and turn west to go to Astor Street. He was walking rapidly and did not hesitate.
The trite truism which relates the inability of human beings to know the future, has a counterpart not so often mentioned: We do not always know our own past until the future has made plain what has happened to us. Constance Sherrill, at the close of this, the most important day in her life, did not know at all
