“Of course,” returned her sister. Yet her heart sank, and long after Sylvia was sleeping peacefully in her little bed, Teresa sat at the window, her hands clasping one knee, while she looked out at the wonderful night, and wondered how soon Wilbraham, who was not a fool, would find out that he had indeed reached the bottom of everything.
But by the morning her fears had left her. By the morning she was her energetic, suggestive self, with an added touch of cordiality in her manner towards Wilbraham. She owned, as they sat at breakfast in the uninviting feeding-room of the Subisio, that he was a striking-looking man, taller than most, and broadly made. There was a greater suggestion of strength about him than she had yet realised, and, like other women, Teresa liked strength. Generally she felt an inclination to contradict him, but this morning she adopted all his suggestions readily—so readily, that once Mrs Maxwell, who had not yet been enlightened, and was unused to seeing Teresa so meek, put down her cup and stared at her. Teresa laughed a little, and went on being pleasant.
“You’ll see how good I am going to be,” she said triumphantly to Mary Maxwell, when she had told her.
“Well, don’t turn the man’s head,” replied her friend.
“My dear, the only thing that can turn a man’s head is a pretty face.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“That’s because you’ve one of your own.”
“Oh!” cried Mrs Maxwell delightedly, “you’re charming! I had almost forgotten what a compliment was like. If Jim had the sense to throw me a few, I should be ready to swear all his discoveries were genuine. Why, why are husbands so foolish?”
Later, when they were clambering again up the stony streets, she caught Mrs Brodrick alone.
“Let us forget all about Saint Francis for a few minutes and talk about Saint Sylvia,” she said; “she is our heroine to-day, and the best of creatures, isn’t she?”