Sylvia stood staring out at the gathering clouds.
“Oh, but I want him,” she said at last.
“Dear! Why? How can you?”
“Of course I want him to be happy. When you are fond of any one—”
Teresa stared at her. What could she say? She saw that the girl was over-strained—nervous; but this firm grasp of the one point she had seized was not to be loosened.
“Ah, her love was worth something!” thought her sister, turning away with a sigh. She perceived that she must temporise.
“Dear, Mr Wilbraham—Walter—will do what he himself thinks best; we can’t possibly decide for him—”
“Please, ask him to stay,” Sylvia interrupted without heeding.
“Ah, that I can’t do.”
The girl twisted her fingers.