I lay there asking myself if freedom meant more to me than anything else. And I decided that it did. It wasn’t Keefe, merely, that made me ask this question, or decide in this way. It was the whole principle of the thing. Should I sell my right to do as I thought best—to do the thing that would bring me happiness—for the sake of a fortune? I did not go down to dinner. Semmy carried my excuses for me. Then, a little later in the evening she came to ask if I would see Mr. Keefe in the writing room. That was the room, you will remember, where we all sat together the night grandmother told us the story about Dorothy Bings. I said I would go, and I brushed my hair and went on down the stairs. Uncle David and Aunt Lorena were sitting in the library and they saw me, and called out to know if I was feeling better, and I told them quite frankly that I was not—thank them, very much. So, with them looking at me, I went on to the writing room, and Keefe stood there by the door waiting for me, and we went in and sat down there, one on each side of the table. There was no firelight this time to cheer us. The room was so chilly that it made my teeth chatter, but I did not really think about that till afterward. “Mr. Knox has told me,” said Keefe as soon as we were seated, “about your grandmother’s will. He has said that he hopes I will not make the fulfillment of its conditions difficult for you.” “How did he know that you were likely to?” I asked. “He could not very well help but know that, Azalea. Anyone who has seen me with you must have known that I loved you.” “Then you do?” I said. “You do, Keefe?” “Why should I need to take the trouble to say it?” he demanded. “Haven’t you known it from the first?” “I have hoped it—sometimes.” “Hoped it?” he said. “Haven’t you heard me say it?” “Once—only once. But I thought that might have been an accident.” Oh, Carin, what beautiful eyes he has! He took my hands in his there across the table. We knew quite well that Aunt Lorena could see us from where she sat, but we did not care at all. “Did you promise my uncle that you would not make it hard for me?” “No. I said if you wished it I would go away.” “Forever?” “Not at all. For the present. I said I would go away and give you a chance to make up your mind. Your uncle and aunt wish to take you to Europe with them. They want you to travel for a year or two. You will meet other men, men whose lives and training will make them fitter companions for you than I can ever be.” “Keefe!” I said sharply. “Don’t muddle up facts like that. Your early training was propriety itself compared with mine.” “Nevertheless, now you are a very rich woman. You bear the name of an old and distinguished family.” “Not half so distinguished as the O’Connors,” I laughed. “Weren’t they kings in Ireland once?” “But my name is not even O’Connor, as you know.”