She was as cautious as this because she saw
that Olive was now just straining to get out of the city; she didn't
want to say anything that would tie them. When she felt her trembling
that way before luncheon it made her quite sick to realise how much her
friend was wrapped up in her--how terribly she would suffer from the
least deviation. After they had started for their round of engagements
the very first thing Verena spoke of in the carriage (Olive had taken
one, in her liberal way, for the whole time) was the fact that her
correspondence with Mr. Ransom, as her friend had called it, had
consisted on his part of only one letter. It was a very short one, too;
it had come to her a little more than a month before. Olive knew she got
letters from gentlemen; she didn't see why she should attach such
importance to this one. Miss Chancellor was leaning back in the
carriage, very still, very grave, with her head against the cushioned
surface, only turning her eyes towards the girl.
"You attach importance yourself; otherwise you would have told me."
"I knew you wouldn't like it--because you don't like _him_."
"I don't think of him," said Olive; "he's nothing to me." Then she
added, suddenly, "Have you noticed that I am afraid to face what I don't
like?"
Verena could not say that she had, and yet it was not just on Olive's
part to speak as if she were an easy person to tell such a thing to: the
way she lay there, white and weak, like a wounded creature, sufficiently
proved the contrary.
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