There were five minutes of silence, while Phœbe stood studying Cecily, and thinking how much injustice she had done to her, how little she had expected a being so soft and feeling in her firmness, and grieving the more at Mervyn’s loss. Cecily at last spoke, ‘When will he come?’
‘We cannot tell; most likely not for a week, perhaps not for a fortnight. It depends on how he likes Corsica.’
‘I think my aunt will be willing to go,’ said Cecily. ‘My uncle has been talking of Nice.’
‘Then must we lose you,’ said Phœbe, ‘when you are doing Bertha so much good?’
‘I should like to be with you while I can, if I may,’ said Cecily, her eyes full of tears.
‘Did you know us at first?’ said Phœbe.
‘I knew you were in this hotel; and after your sisters had spoken, and I saw Bertha’s face, I was sure who she was. I thought no one was with you but Miss Charlecote, and that no one knew, so that I might safely indulge myself.’ The word was out before she could recall it, and trying, as it were, to hide it, she said, ‘But how, if you knew what had passed, did you not sooner know it was I?’
‘Because we thought your name was Holmby.’
‘Did you, indeed. You did not know that my aunt Holmby is my mother’s sister? She kindly took me when my uncle was ordered to spend this winter abroad.’
‘You were ill and tried. Bertha read that in your face. Oh! when you see how much difference—’