Lucy watched her friend curiously, but Glynne’s countenance did not tell of the thoughts that were busy within her brain.
“Poor fellow!” continued Lucy, “he thinks of scarcely anything but his studies.”
Lucy was very fond of Glynne, she felt all the young girlish enthusiasm of her age for the graceful statuesque maiden; while in her heart of hearts Glynne had often wished she were as bright and light-hearted and merry as Lucy. All the same though, now, excellent friends as they were, there was suspicion between them, and dread, and a curious self-consciousness of guilt that made the situation feel strange; and over and over again Glynne thought it was time to go—that she had better leave, and still she stayed.
“You never say anything to me now about your engagement, dear,” said Lucy at last, and as the words left her lips the guilty colour flushed into her cheeks, and she said to herself, “Oh! how dare I say such a thing?”
“No,” said Glynne, quietly and calmly, opening her great eyes widely and gazing full in those of her friend, but seeing nothing of the present, only trying to read her own life in the future, what time she felt a strange sensation of wonder at her position. “No: I never talk about it to any one,” she said at last; “there is no need.”
“No need?” exclaimed Lucy with a gasp; and she looked quite guilty, as she bent towards Glynne ready to burst into tears, and confess that she was very very sorry for what she had done—that she utterly detested Captain Rolph, and that if she had seemed to encourage him, it was in the interest of her brother and friend.
But Glynne’s calm matter-of-fact manner kept her back, and she sat and stared with her pretty little face expressing puzzledom in every line.
“No; I do not care to talk about it,” said Glynne calmly, “there is no need to discuss that which is settled.”
“Settled, Glynne?”
“Well, inevitable,” said Glynne coldly. “When am I to congratulate you, Lucy?” she added, with a grave smile.