"Why should she think of it now? Oh, yes, I know she has not been keen about it for some time, as she should have been. But she has not seemed to dislike it; she has looked forward to it as much a matter of course as—as it has been to all the rest of us. And I felt so sure it would be all right—that I could make her as happy as possible—when we were once married and she had settled down!"
It was not often that Mrs. Reade was perplexed, but now—between her duty to her family, her strong affection for Rachel, and her desire to assist her friend—she really did not know what to do. While she was silent, struggling with the dilemma in her active mind, Mr. Kingston went on.
"It is since she went to Adelonga that she has changed so much. Haven't you noticed?"
"You did not behave very well to her at Adelonga, you know."
"Who told you that? Did she?"
"Never mind who told me. There is never any secrecy about your proceedings—I will give you that credit. You treated her very badly at Lucilla's ball."
"Not worse than she treated me," he began, impetuously; and then he paused and looked at his hostess. He was gentleman enough to shrink from discussing Rachel's misdeeds in connection with "that Dalrymple fellow," but he longed to find out how much her wise cousin and late companion knew. Mrs. Reade fingered her knitting with a placid and impenetrable face.
"Tell me—you know Rachel so intimately—do you think——"
"Do I think what?"
"That there is anyone she cares for—more than she cares for me?"