Not a word was spoken between them for the first mile, nor did a sound of a sob or an audible suspicion of a tear come from Mary. Why did those girls know the secret of her heart in that way? Why had they dared to express a hope as to an event, or an idea as to a disappointment, all knowledge of which ought to be buried in her own bosom? Had she spoken of her love for John Gordon? She was sure that no word had escaped her. And were it surmised, was it not customary that such surmises should be kept in the dark? But here these young ladies had dared to pity her for her vain love, as though, like some village maiden, she had gone about in tears bewailing herself that some groom or gardener had been faithless. But sitting thus for the first mile, she choked herself to keep down her sobs.
"Mary," at last he whispered to her.
"Well, Mr Whittlestaff?"
"Mary, we are both of us unhappy."
"I am not unhappy," she said, plucking up herself suddenly. "Why do you say that I am unhappy?"
"You seem so. I at any rate am unhappy."
"What makes you so?"
"I did wrong to take you to dine in company with that man."
"It was not for me to refuse to go."
"No; there is no blame to you in it;—nor is there blame to me. But it would have been better for us both had we remained away." Then he drove on in silence, and did not speak another word till they reached home.