“Is she bantering me?” thought Lucy; and then quickly, “Congratulate me? there is not much likelihood of that, Glynne, dear. Poor girls without portion or position rarely find husbands.”
“Indeed!” said Glynne gravely. “Surely a portion, as you call it, is not necessary for genuine happiness?”
“No, no, of course not, dear,” cried Lucy hastily. “But I know what you mean, and I’ll answer you. No—emphatically no: there is nobody.”
“Nobody?”
“Nobody!” cried Lucy, shaking her head vigorously. “Don’t look at me like that, dear,” she continued, imploringly, for she was most earnest now in her effort to make Glynne believe, if she suspected any flirtation with Rolph, that her old friend was speaking in all sincerity and truth. “If there were anything, dear, I should be unsettled until I had told you.”
She rose quickly, laid her hands upon Glynne’s shoulders, and kissed her forehead, remaining standing by her side.
“I am glad to hear you say so, Lucy,” replied Glynne, gazing frankly in her eyes, “for I was afraid that there was some estrangement springing up between us.”
“Yes,” cried Lucy, “you feel as I have felt. It is because you have not spoken out candidly and freely as you used to speak to me, dear.”
Glynne’s forehead contracted slightly, for she winced a little before the charge, one which recalled a bitter struggle through which she had passed, and the final conquest which she felt that she had gained.
She opened her lips to speak, but no words came, for as often as friendship for Lucy urged confession, shame acted as a bar, and stopped the eager speech that was ready for escape.