“And Mr Wilbraham?”
“Really, I don’t know,” said Mrs Brodrick, with a touch of displeasure. “Probably with your husband.”
“Oh, my husband! My husband is worshipping a silly forged Greek coin,” said Mrs Maxwell irrepressibly.
“Each one seems to be having a solitary time of it.”
“I wish you and Teresa were improving it by meditating on your imprudences. No, really I must speak. I get frightened for poor Sylvia. Don’t you see? Those two are so unsuited!”
“Really?” Mrs Brodrick drew herself up.
“Oh, you know it!” cried Mrs Maxwell, in a transport of self-sacrifice. “I hate speaking so brutally, but one must do horrid things for those one cares for; and I am sure, unless you interfere, there will be some awful dénouement. He isn’t thinking about Sylvia.”
“Mary!”
“He isn’t. He is awaking to a much bigger emotion; and you know, as well as I do, that Sylvia, with all her prettiness, isn’t the girl to inspire a great passion. If it’s not Sylvia, who is it?”
Mrs Brodrick remained silent. Mary Maxwell came and knelt by her side, laying her head on her lap.