“And do you mean to say that you are going away?” said Jane, faltering as she began to realize the consequences.
“I do. And what is to become of you when I am not here to get you out of your scrapes, or of Gertrude without me to check her inveterate snobbishness, is more than I can foresee.”
“I am not snobbish,” said Gertrude, “although I do not choose to make friends with everyone. But I never objected to you, Agatha.”
“No; I should like to catch you at it. Hallo, Jane!” (who had suddenly burst into tears): “what’s the matter? I trust you are not permitting yourself to take the liberty of crying for me.”
“Indeed,” sobbed Jane indignantly, “I know that I am a f—fool for my pains. You have no heart.”
“You certainly are a f—fool, as you aptly express it,” said Agatha, passing her arm round Jane, and disregarding an angry attempt to shake it off; “but if I had any heart it would be touched by this proof of your attachment.”
“I never said you had no heart,” protested Jane; “but I hate when you speak like a book.”
“You hate when I speak like a book, do you? My dear, silly old Jane! I shall miss you greatly.”
“Yes, I dare say,” said Jane, with tearful sarcasm. “At least my snoring will never keep you awake again.”
“You don’t snore, Jane. We have been in a conspiracy to make you believe that you do, that’s all. Isn’t it good of me to tell you?”