"I thought, Laura, that you and I were never to refer to him
again," I said gently.
"You had a letter from him?" she persisted.
"Yes," I replied, "if you must know it."
"Do you mean to write to him again?"
I hesitated. I had been afraid to tell her of his absence from
England, or of the manner in which my exertions to serve his new
hopes and projects had connected me with his departure. What
answer could I make? He was gone where no letters could reach him
for months, perhaps for years, to come.
"Suppose I do mean to write to him again," I said at last. "What
then, Laura?"
Her cheek grew burning hot against my neck, and her arms trembled
and tightened round me.
"Don't tell him about THE TWENTY-SECOND," she whispered.
"Promise, Marian--pray promise you will not even mention my name
to him when you write next."
I gave the promise. No words can say how sorrowfully I gave it.
She instantly took her arm from my waist, walked away to the
window, and stood looking out with her back to me. After a moment
she spoke once more, but without turning round, without allowing
me to catch the smallest glimpse of her face.
"Are you going to my uncle's room?" she asked. "Will you say that
I consent to whatever arrangement he may think best? Never mind
leaving me, Marian.
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