Rhoda was silent. Did she know? Very dimly, with a mere intellectual
perception, but still a great deal better than the little arithmetic
teacher could have told her, she understood the desire of that innocent
person, not for love, not for happiness, but just for leave to lay down
her life for this friend, this deity of hers, to be consumed in
sacrifice. And the bitter and terrible thing was that she was not allowed
to do it. The friend had no use for the life, the deity no appetite for
the sacrifice.

"Don't think about it," she said; it seemed the best thing to say in the
singular circumstances. "It will all come right."

By this time Miss Quincey had got the better of the sob in her throat.
"It may," she replied with dignity; "but I shall not be the first to make
advances."

"Advances? Rather not. But if I thought he was thinking things--he isn't,
you know, he's not that sort; still, if I thought it I should have it out
with him."

"How could you have it--'out with him'?"

"Oh I should just ask him what he thought of me; or better still, tell
him what I thought of him."

Miss Quincey shrank visibly from the bold suggestion.

"Would you? Oh, that would never do. You won't mind my saying so, but I
think it would look a little indelicate. Of course it would be very
different if it were a woman; if it were you for instance."