“It’s Evelyn Stanhope,” she replied, “the daughter of our clergyman. He’s a tremendously handsome man. All the woman are crazy about him.” Theresa looked at her peculiarly.
“What is it?” asked Emily, instantly taking fright, though she did not show it.
“I thought perhaps you’d heard.”
“Heard what?”
“All about Miss Stanhope and—and Edgar.”
“You don’t mean that Edgar has recovered from me? How unflattering!” Emily’s smile was delightfully natural—and relieved.
“He’s got love and marriage on the brain, and he’s broken-hearted, you know. And in those cases if it can’t be the woman it’s bound to be a woman.”
Emily was in the mood to be completely resigned to giving up to another that which she did not want herself. She studied Miss Stanhope without prejudice against her and found her sweet but as yet colourless, a proper young person for Edgar to marry, one toward whom she could not possibly have felt the usual dog-in-the-manger jealousy. After dinner she sat near her and encouraged her in the bird-like chatter of the school girl. She was listened to with patience and tolerance; because she was young and fresh and delighted with everything including herself, amusingly, not offensively. She fell in love with Emily and timidly asked if she might come to see her.
“That would be delightful,” said Emily with enthusiasm, falling through infection into a mode of speech and thought long outgrown. “I’m sure we shall be great friends. Theresa will bring you on Saturday afternoon. That is my free day. You see, I’m a working-woman. I work every day except Saturday.”
“Sundays too?” asked Evelyn.