seeming to lead in another direction,
surprised her. With all her resolutions she was not prepared to forget.
She lifted her eyes for a fleeting glance, and could not help thinking
that the memory of his face had been much less effective than its
presence. The tones of his voice, too, were stronger and sweeter at
close range than she had remembered. In short, Dic by her side and Dic
twenty-five miles away were two different propositions--the former a
very dangerous and irresistible one, indeed. Still, she would not
forgive him. She could not and would not forget him; but she would shut
her eyes to the handsome face, she would close her ears to the deep,
strong voice, she would harden her heart to his ardent love, and, alas!
to her own. She insisted to herself that she no longer loved him, and
never, never would.

Every word that Sukey had ever spoken concerning Dic, every meeting of
which she knew that had ever taken place between him and the
dimpler,--in fact, all the trivial events that had happened between her
lover and the girl who was trying to steal him from her, including the
occurrence at Scott's social,--came vividly back to Rita at that moment
with exaggerated meaning, and told her she had for years been a poor,
trusting dupe. She would listen to Dic because he was the stronger and
could compel her to remain in the room; but when he should finish, she
would go and would never speak to Miss Tousy again.

"This is a terrible calamity I have brought upon us," said Dic, speaking
with difficulty and constraint. "It is like blindness or madness, and
means wretchedness for life to you and me."

Still the unexpected direction, thought Rita, but she answered out of
her firm resolve:--

"I shall not be wretched, for I do not--don't care. The time was when I
did care very, very much; but now I--" She did not finish the sentence,
and her conscience reproached her, for she knew she was uttering a big,
black lie.

Dic had expected scorn, and had thought he would be able to bear it
without flinching. He had fortified himself days before by driving all
hope out of his heart, but (as we say and feel when our dear ones die)
he was not prepared, even though he well knew what was coming. Her words
stunned him for a moment, but he soon pulled himself together, and his
unselfish love brought a feeling akin to relief: a poor, dry sort of
joy, because he had learned that she did not suffer the pain that was
torturing him. No m