And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. She was sore and overstrung, and it was intolerable to her that he should stand within three yards of her unsuspectingly, with an incalculably vast power over her happiness. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. . They might applaud, or object, or interfere, but the drama was her very own. . “Annabel,” she said, “I have never asked you for your confidence. I really am enjoying it.
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