“Always, whatever comes. Shall I come and sit with you, Julie; only for an hour?”
“No,” said Julia, firmly, “not to-night. Let us go to our rooms.”
They went out of the drawing-room with their arms round each other’s waists, till they were about to part at Julia’s door, when the final words and appeals that Cynthia was about to speak died away upon her lips, and she ran to her own chamber, sobbing bitterly, while, white as ashes, and trembling in every limb, Julia entered hers.
“Poor, poor Julie!” sobbed Cynthia; and for a good ten minutes she wept, her maid sniffing softly in sympathy till she was dismissed.
“Go away, Minson,” cried Cynthia; “I don’t want you any more.”
“But won’t you try on your dress again, miss?” said the maid in expostulation.
“No, Minson, I only wish it was fresh mourning, I do,” cried the girl, passionately; and the maid withdrew, to meet Julia’s maid on the stairs, and learn that she never knew such a thing before in her life—a young bride, and wouldn’t try on her things.
Cynthia sat thinking for a few minutes, and then a bright look came into her eyes.
“He didn’t come to-night,” she said. “He was cross about Julie. I wonder whether I could see the bright end of a cigar if I looked out over the gardens. Oh, the cunning of some people, to give policemen half-sovereigns not to take them for burglars, and lock them up.”
As she spoke, Cynthia drew up her blind softly, and holding back the curtain, ensconced herself in the corner, so that she could look down into the gardens, her window being towards the park.