“He saw plainly enough,” whined her ladyship, “that it could not be—that it would have been a complete misalliance.”
“This is unbearable,” whispered Maude, clasping her cousin’s hand, which pressed hers warmly and encouragingly, as they stood in the window recess, half screened by the heavy curtains.
“Try not to listen, dear,” whispered Tryphie.
“It nearly maddens me. I feel as if I could do anything wicked and desperate.”
“Oh, hush, hush, dear,” whispered Tryphie; and Lady Barmouth maundered on in tones asking for sympathy, as she set herself up as the suffering ill-used mother whom no one tried to comfort in her distress.
“Saved you as I did from a life of misery,” continued her ladyship, whimpering. “Oh, dear! oh, dear! how children strive to throw themselves away.”
Maude moaned, and held her hand to her side.
“Are you ill, dear?” whispered Tryphie.
“No, no,” was the reply. “It is past now—past.”
“I shall be sorry when you are gone, Maude,” said her father simply.