Chapter Six.
Late into the night, facing the window, and the broad starlit sky stretching over the plain, Teresa sat with Sylvia’s hands in hers, listening. She said little, she was trying to gather what were the girl’s sensations—whether, as she unconsciously expected, things were awakening under this new touch. What perhaps surprised her most, though nothing would have induced her to own it, was Sylvia’s own want of surprise. She, who was generally so timid, so scrupulous, seemed to take all as a matter of course. Teresa reflected that Wilbraham’s wooing must have been amazingly effective, for Sylvia no longer seemed to have a doubt about anything. She talked of “we,” she alluded to plans with innocent egoism, she repeated some of the pretty things he had said. Once she jumped up and ran to the funny little looking-glass stuck against the wall, and came back smiling.
“He thinks my eyes charming,” she said frankly. “You never said much about them?”
“One waits for lovers to do that,” laughed Teresa.
“I don’t see why. Did the marchese admire yours?”
“How could he!” Teresa spoke with sharp pain, the pain of remembrance. “I was never pretty, like you, child.”
“No,” said Sylvia, looking at her with her head on one side, “I suppose not. Walter said you were not.”
“Oh, Walter. That’s his name, is it?”
Teresa hated herself for speaking with a certain asperity. It is so much easier to disparage one’s self than to bear with others doing it. But Sylvia was at last genuinely amazed.