"I think she has a headache," said the little sister. "Queer, for I
never knew Rob to have a headache before."
"The headache," murmured Louis, in Rosamond's ear, "is the feminine
defence against the world. A timely headache, now and then, is suffered
by the best of men--and women. Well--let her rest, Rufus. She'll be all
right in the morning."
Above them, by her open window, sat Roberta, for a little while, elbows
on sill, chin in hands. Then, presently, she stole downstairs again, out
by a side entrance, and away among the shrubbery, to the furthest point
of the grounds--not far, in point of actual distance, but quite removed
by its environment from contact with the world around. Here, stretched
upon the warm turf, her arms outflung, her eyes gazing up at the
star-set heavens above her, the girl rested from her encounter with a
desperate besieging force.
For a time, the last words she had heard that evening were ringing in
her ears--sombre words, uttered in a deep tone of melancholy, by a voice
which commanded cadences that had often reached the minds and hearts of
men and swayed them. "Is that all--_all_, Roberta? Must I go away with
_that_?"
She had sent him away, and her heart ached for him, for she could not
doubt the depth and sincerity of his feeling for her.
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