"I think you must decide for yourself; but I am very much afraid of a hasty 'Yes,'—for your sake, and for his. I am afraid you might both regret it."
"Yes; I understand. O no; it wouldn't do! Mother, I really am glad. Perhaps I'm a little sorry too, because the Brow and everything would be so nice—except Miss Devereux and Lady Lucas! I should like it so much for you and my father . . . But, of course, that isn't enough. I mean it wouldn't be right to marry him for the sake of anybody else! . . . And somehow, I can't think of Sir Cyril as—as—a husband!"—blushing furiously. "I like him very much indeed, just coming in and out. But I almost think—I'm afraid I should get just a little tired of him, if it were always and always going on."
"And suppose poor Sir Cyril—after losing friends and offending relatives by marrying—suppose he should find the wife, for whom he had given up so much, getting only a little tired of him? Only a little bored with his talk—and impatient of his companionship—and careless about pleasing him—perhaps even pettish and fractious, in return for—?"
"Mother, you needn't go on! I see now quite quite plainly! I didn't understand before. It would be horrid and cruel of me to marry him, feeling as I do. O no—because I don't really love him, and I don't believe I ever could! I'll write a note this minute; and don't you think we might send it—not keep him another whole night in suspense? I suppose he is in a little suspense just now, you know—though I dare say he will get over it soon."
It had indeed been a day of suspense for Cyril, though not precisely that fashion of suspense which Emmeline innocently pictured to herself. How to live through the dragging hours was a problem not easily solved. Most young men in his condition would at least have had the help of enforced occupation, but Cyril had abundant leisure to suffer his worst.
Sybella's was not a soothing companionship. She fretted him with questions and surmises, was annoyed when he told her nothing, and defended herself with her usual verbosity from charges which nobody had made, turning everything into an argument.
To escape from home-friction, Cyril walked from breakfast until lunch, after which he vanished into his smoking-den for an hour, and then went off for a four hours' ride, barely returning in time for dinner, which indeed had to wait ten minutes while he dressed.
"You never used to be unpunctual, Cyril!"
"I dare say not," Cyril answered.
"It is a very bad habit. It grows upon people."