“But you are coming back,” said Lydia with a frank smile, not meant to be unfriendly.
Yvonne's face clouded.
“Yes, I shall probably come back. Nothing is sure in this queer world of ours.” She threw her cigarette away. “I don't like it to-day. Ugh! how it tastes in my mouth!” She drew closer to the girl's side. Lydia's nostrils filled with the strange, sweet perfume that she affected, so individually hers, so personally Yvonne. “Oh, yes; I shall come back. Why not? Is not this my home?”
“You may call it your home, Mrs Brood,” said Lydia, “but are you quite sure your thoughts always abide here? I mean in the United States, of course.”
Yvonne had looked up at her quickly.
“Oh, I see. No; I shall never be an American.” Then she abruptly changed the subject. “You have had a nice day with Frederic? You have been happy, both of you?”
“Yes—very happy, Mrs Brood,” said the girl simply.
“I am glad. You must always be happy, you two. It is my greatest wish.”
Lydia hesitated for a moment.
“Frederic asked me to be his wife—to-morrow,” she said, and her heart began to thump queerly. She felt that she was approaching a crisis of some sort.