“To-morrow?” fell from Yvonne's lips. The word was drawn out, as if in one long breath. Then, to Lydia's astonishment, an extraordinary change came over the speaker.
“Yes, yes; it should be—it must be to-morrow. Poor boy—poor, poor boy! You will marry, yes, and go way at once, aïe?” Her voice was almost shrill in its intensity, her eyes were wide and eager and—anxious.
“I——— Oh, Mrs Brood, is it for the best?” cried Lydia. “Is it the best thing for Frederic to do? I—I feared you might object. I am sure his father will refuse permission———”
“But you love each other—that is enough. Why ask the consent of anyone? Yes, yes, it is for the best. I know—oh, you cannot realise how well I know. You must not hesitate.” The woman was trembling in her eagerness. Lydia's astonishment gave way to perplexity.
“What do you mean? Why are you so serious—so intent on this———”
“Frederic has no money,” pursued Yvonne, as if she had not heard Lydia's words. “But that must not deter you—it must not stand in the way. I shall find a way; yes, I shall find a way. I———”
“Do you mean that you would provide for him for us?” exclaimed Lydia.
“There is a way, there is a way,” said the other, fixing her eyes appealingly on the girl's face, to which the flush of anger was slowly mounting.
“His father will not help him—if, that is what you are counting upon, Mrs Brood,” said the girl coldly.
“I know. He will not help him; no.”