Pen found no difficulty in believing this. She said: “Well, don’t stand there wringing your hands! Let us sit down under that tree.”
Lydia looked doubtful. “Will it not be damp?”
“No, of course not! Besides, what if it were?”
“Oh, the grass might stain my dress!”
“It seems to me,” said Pen severely, “that if you are bothering about your dress you cannot be in such great trouble.”
“Oh, but I am!” said Lydia, sinking down on to the turf, and clasping her hands at her bosom. “I do not know what you will say, or what you will think of me! I must have been mad! Only you were kind to me last night, and I thought I could trust you!”
“I dare say you can,” said Pen. “But I wish you will tell me what is the matter, because I have not yet had any breakfast, and—”
“If I had thought that you would be so unsympathetic I would never, never have sent for you!” declared Lydia in tremulous accents.
“Well, it is very difficult to be sympathetic when a person will do nothing but wring her hands, and say the sort of things there really is no answer to,” said Pen reasonably. “Do start at the beginning!”
Miss Daubenay bowed her head. “I am the most unhappy creature alive!” she announced. “I have the misfortune to be secretly betrothed to one whom my father will not tolerate.”