He was beginning to feel a keen interest in
the slender, barefoot donkey-girl who slipped
in and out of the play, singing, like some one
winding through a hilly field. He leaned
forward and beamed felicitations as warmly
as Mainhall himself when, at the end of the
play, she came again and again before the
curtain, panting a little and flushed, her eyes
dancing and her eager, nervous little mouth
tremulous with excitement.
When Alexander returned to his hotel--
he shook Mainhall at the door of the theatre--
he had some supper brought up to his room,
and it was late before he went to bed.
He had not thought of Hilda Burgoyne for
years; indeed, he had almost forgotten her.
He had last written to her from Canada,
after he first met Winifred, telling her that
everything was changed with him--that he had
met a woman whom he would marry if he could;
if he could not, then all the more was
everything changed for him. Hilda had never
replied to his letter. He felt guilty and
unhappy about her for a time, but after
Winifred promised to marry him he really forgot
Hilda altogether. When he wrote her that
everything was changed for him, he was telling
the truth. After he met Winifred Pemberton
he seemed to himself like a different man.
One night when he and Winifred were
sitting together on the bridge, he told her
that things had happened while he was studying
abroad that he was sorry for,--one thing in
particular,--and he asked her whether she
thought she ought to know about them.
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