Teresa’s thoughts were not with the storm. They tenderly wrapped Sylvia, wondering how deep the pain would go.
“Darling, didn’t granny say she wanted you? Perhaps you’d better go to her; and then, then, mind you come back to me. To me,” she repeated tenderly.
“There’ll be time before dinner,” Sylvia objected without moving.
“She’s waiting, dear.”
“I’d rather talk to you, Teresa, please. There’s something I want to say. And it’s all so funny!” she went on, breaking into a nervous laugh.
The laugh reassured Teresa. The first words had sent the blood back to her heart.
“I’m listening,” she said gaily. “I hope it’s very, very funny.”
“Well, it is. At least I suppose most people would think so. Oh yes, it’s funny, of course. Teresa, you will marry him, won’t you?”
The marchesa turned a whitely-amazed face to her sister.
“I? Marry! Who—what?”