‘She may not be exactly a genius,’ said John, ‘but she is the very least stupid girl I ever knew. She is charming. I–I should think you would like her,’ he added, a little confusedly.
‘It is to be hoped I may, as she is to be my brother’s wife,’ said Avice, in so sharp and bitter a tone that John looked at her in astonishment. Avice saw the look, and said hastily: ‘The engagement is a surprise to me. I only heard of it this evening.’
‘Because it was only decided this morning,’ said John, with a beaming smile. ‘Nita only told me of it herself this afternoon. I’ve been congratulating her, and it is good to see her so happy. And I think I shall pursue Wellfield up to the Abbey, and give him my good wishes there. Nita will not mind. Good-night, Miss Wellfield.’
John’s drawl saved his sentences from the appearance of abruptness which might otherwise have marred their beauty.
‘Good-night,’ said Avice, absently.
She held out her hand, and he shook it, and then let himself out, painfully conscious that he knocked his feet together, and dashed an umbrella or two to the ground in his exit, in a manner of which Wellfield, and such as he, would never have been guilty.
As for Avice, she was reflecting more and more hopelessly on the situation. Good, clever, charming, and very happy. Then it was evident that she loved Jerome very much–and if she knew nothing, it was not she who was to blame.
Avice carried her meditations to her room, where weariness soon overcame her. In sleep she forgot alike the long journey home, the strange, cold reception accorded to her, the dreadful news Jerome had given her, her own anguish, and the great wrong done to Sara Ford. She forgot even to wonder whether she should consent to go and see Miss Bolton the following day, or sternly choose a dreary fate, and, for the sake of duty, go to school.
