It was what Sheila had so recently told herself, and she could not refute it now. Looking into her downcast, acquiescent face, Charlotte continued: "As for the vow--that's nonsense! It's mere morbid, hysterical nonsense. God never exacted it of you. He's never held you to it, you may be sure. If He's wanted anything of you, He's wanted you to use the talent He's given you. If you've been at all at fault, it's for wasting your talent. You _have_ wasted it--you've wasted it to please Ted. You've wasted it because you've allowed yourself to be intimidated and bullied by Ted. That's the whole trouble!" "Oh, Charlotte--," began Sheila. "I've spoken the truth," insisted Charlotte firmly. "You can't deny a word I've said." And then, flinging out her hands with a gesture of despair, "The worst of it is that it's too late to help matters now. You'll go on in the same way--letting Ted bully you--to the end of your days. There's never been any chance for you with him. Your chance was with Peter Burnett. It's Peter you should have married!" "You must not say that," objected Sheila quickly--and a little unsteadily. "You must not say that, Charlotte. It's ridiculous. And it's dreadful, too. Ted and I love each other--we _do_ love each other!" But Charlotte was no longer inclined for argument. She answered Sheila's protest with a smile--no more. Suddenly she seemed to be through with the subject of Sheila's life, and perching upon the railing of the veranda, she looked off into green distances with a gaze singularly vague and pensive for her. Sheila watched her admiringly, noting her erect slenderness, her spirited, keenly intelligent face, the clear blue of her eyes, the warm gold of her hair in the sunshine. "It's you Peter should marry," said Sheila lightly, when the silence between them had lengthened uncomfortably. "You'd be just the wife for him, Charlotte!" Charlotte turned toward her, and there was no mistaking her earnestness and her sincerity. "I'd marry him to-morrow!" she cried. "Oh, Charlotte, I never _dreamed--my dear_!----" "Don't be sorry for me," Charlotte interrupted warningly. "Don't be sorry for me. I may marry him yet!" And a moment later, she was swinging down the street, as serene and independent as if she had never known--much less, confessed--the pain of unrequited love. As Sheila looked after her, she noticed again the gold of her hair, the beautiful, free carriage of her shoulders--and now she felt no pleasure in them. Rather was she conscious of a sharp little pang of envy, and with it, sounded the echo of Charlotte's last words--"I may marry him yet!" Charlotte was a splendid, gallant creature; she _might_ marry Peter. And then Sheila, feeling that envious pang again and still more sharply, demanded of herself in swift terror: "Am I jealous?--_am I jealous of Charlotte because Peter may come to love her_?"