“The only thing that he has been talking about ever since it happened,” she continued, “is his sorrow. Oh, his sorrow! And it is deep, Miss Dalton. I never saw such deep sorrow. He really swears about it in a shocking manner; and that with him is a sign that his feelings are concerned very strongly. He always swears whenever he is deeply moved.”
Edith at this started to her feet with a look in her eyes which showed Mrs. Mowbray that she would not be trifled with any longer.
“Mrs. Mowbray,” said she, “I came down for the sole purpose of telling you that in future I shall dispense with the pleasure of your calls.”
Mrs. Mowbray rose from her chair.
“What!” she exclaimed, with a gesture of consternation; “and live in complete seclusion? Not receive calls? No, no; you really must not think of such a thing. We are your friends, you know, and you must not deny us an occasional sight of you. My poor boy will positively die if he doesn't see you. He's pining now. And it's all for you. All.”
“Mrs. Mowbray,” said Edith, in a severe tone, “I do not know whether you give offense intentionally or not. You seem unable to take a hint, however strongly expressed, and you force me to speak plainly, although I dislike to do so. You must not, and you shall not, come here any more.”
“Oh, my dear Miss Dalton, you really are quite excited,” said Mrs. Mowbray, with a pleasant smile.
“I mean what I say,” said Edith, coldly. “You are not—to come here again.”
Mrs. Mowbray laughed lightly.
“Oh, you really can't keep us away. We positively must come. My son insists. These lovers, you know, dear, are so pertinacious. Well,” she added, looking hastily at Edith, “I suppose I must say good—morning; but, Miss Dalton, think of my boy. Good—morning, my dear Miss Dalton.”