“Oh!” she cried. “Oh ... you ... Mrs. Iverson.... Please sit down!”
Rosaleen was glad to do so, because her knees were weak. And for some time they sat opposite each other, their eyes averted, saying not a word. Mrs. Allanby grey haired and elegant, in her black crêpe de chine, Rosaleen dejected, pensive, worn.
“I wanted to speak to you before I saw Nick,” she said, suddenly. “I wanted to see....”
“Yes?” said Mrs. Allanby, encouragingly. A wild hope had sprung up in her that perhaps Rosaleen didn’t wish to marry Nick, that perhaps she had fallen in love with some undesirable person like herself.
“I suppose you’d like to make the best of a bad bargain?” said Rosaleen.
These words struck Mrs. Allanby forcibly; they destroyed her hope completely. She murmured:
“If it’s a bad bargain, why make it?”
Rosaleen ignored this.
“He’ll ask me to marry him,” she said, “and I’ll say ‘yes’.... But there are—a lot of difficulties....”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Allanby, quickly. “You are frank with me, Mrs. Iverson, and Ah shall be frank with you. There are a great many difficulties. It’s not ... no; it’s not a suitable match for either of you. Ah don’t think—in fact, Ah’m sure you’d neither of you be happy. If you will weigh the disadvantages....”