What a dungeon-knell there was in those three words! Tea in that little shabby sitting-room, away from everything of light, or life, or understanding. A piece of bread, a cup of tea and whatever else was going, eaten alone, and the dreariness of a long dull evening beyond. And somehow or other the thought of the evening frightened Rosalie. It was so dark. The long passages above so ghostly, dim, and silent. And below? She shivered and looked towards the door of the eastern wing, that in some unaccountable way seemed to pervade all things with its shadow and odour of graves.
So though Mariana, after she had spoken, stood still and waited a while for the effect of her words, Rosalie delayed to follow her.
The freedom and grandeur of the sunset was still running in her veins; the pleasantness of conversation and companionship had its influence on her also.
“Ought I to go?” she asked suddenly, looking up at Mr. Barringcourt.
“I don’t know, I’m sure. If you admire Mariana as much as you profess I think you should go.”
“It isn’t a case of Mariana. It’s me—myself.”
“Well, what of you?”
“I’d much rather stay, and have my tea with—with you.”
“I don’t indulge in tea.”
“Then do they insist on your eating a red lozenge instead?”