"Exactly—what stupid fools!" said Marie. "But not only that, you know."
"Of course, not only that," said Lady Ardingly, annoyed at herself. "Now, Marie, Jack is here. He is waiting to know if you will see him. I will wait, too. I will sacrifice all the day, if between us we can make you see—if between us we can do any good. I ask you in common fairness to listen. There will be plenty of time for all sorts of decrees correspondent—I don't know what they call them—afterwards. Now, which of us will you see first? Him or me?"
Marie suddenly felt her throat muscles beyond control. She had no idea whether she was going to laugh or cry. Her will was to do neither. The effect was that she did both, and flung herself down on the sofa by the other.
"There, there," said Lady Ardingly, "that is right. I am not a tender woman, but I am sorry for you. It is all terrible. But the sun will rise to-morrow, and the Newmarket autumn meeting will take place, and Christmas Day will come in November—or December, is it not? Be quiet a moment."
But Marie's hysterical outburst ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and she sat up again, drying her eyes. "Give me a minute," she said.
"As many as you wish," said Lady Ardingly. "By the way, is that tall thing here, that daughter?"
Marie began to laugh again, but checked herself.
"Yes," she said. "Maud saw what I saw. She came up with me last night."
"Do the servants know?" asked Lady Ardingly with some anxiety.