"How could anybody object to Cyril personally?" cried Ida, angrily rolling up her pocket-handkerchief into a tight, wet little ball and rubbing her eyes with it. "No; it is all on account of him not having enough money. He says he will never let me marry a man that has not at least £1,000 a year. And where is Cyril to get all that! Unless he is made a bishop, and he hasn't a chance of being made that until after years and years and years of waiting, when he is old and quite bald!"
At this mournful idea Ida's face again squeezed up into dismal lines and puckers, and her sobs broke forth with renewed strength.
Suddenly Miss Crane became so motionless, so quiet, that at last Ida's curiosity overcame her grief; she put down her pocket-handkerchief and looked at Miss Crane with pained astonishment at her want of sympathy.
Miss Crane came out of her reverie with a start.
"Don't cry any more, it will all come right," she said, with a forced smile.
"That's what everyone says!" cried Ida in the tone of injured friendship. "But I did think you would have sympathised with one."
She arranged her hair, put on her hat, and stood up as if to go away, expecting Miss Crane would make her stay; but Miss Crane sat motionless, staring fixedly out of the window.
"Good-bye, then!" said Ida stiffly.
"Good-bye, my dear," replied Miss Crane.