That night, when the mystic hour of “hair brushing” came round, she could hold her tongue no longer.
“I wish,” she said impetuously, “you wouldn’t shut me out of it all. I know quite well you are unhappy, though you will play the ostrich and bury your head in the sand in that English way, supposing that no one will notice you.”
Evereld laughed at the old mixture of the similes.
“I never heard of an English ostrich,” she said merrily. “If there ever was one it must long ago have become extinct like the Dodo.”
“Ah, you laugh now,” said Bride, “but you have looked wretched all the afternoon, and I saw you crying in church.”
Evereld blushed guiltily.
“It was very stupid of me, but I couldn’t help remembering how different all had been last Sunday evening.”
“When Mr. Denmead was here,” said Bride boldly.
Evereld nodded.
Bride looked straight into her soft blue eyes.