“I know what you mean,” she said. “We both want to be master; but I think—I am afraid—he will have the upper hand now.”
But the smile that quivered over the upturned face was full of such sweetness and brightness that Monica kissed her again.
“You will not find him such a tyrant as he professes to be. Tom is very generous and unselfish, despite his affectation of cynicism. I am so glad you have made him happy at last. I am so glad that our paths in life will not lie very widely apart.”
Beatrice took Monica’s hand and kissed it.
“I am so happy,” she said simply. “And I owe it all to you.”
Monica caressed the dark head laid against her knee, as Beatrice subsided into her favourite lowly position at Monica’s feet. Presently she became aware that the girl’s tears were falling fast.
“Crying, dearest?” she questioned gently.
A stifled sob was the answer.
“What is the matter, my child?”
“Randolph!” was all that Beatrice could get out. Somehow the desolation of Monica’s life had never come home to her with quite the same sense of realisation as now, in the hour of her deepest happiness.