The sunlight failed. The reflected glow from the western sky paled into grey, and twilight found our guest still in his place at the window, with his knee on the bench, and his elbows resting on the window-stone, our candles being lighted, chatting, as I thought, quite delightfully, talking sense and nonsense very pleasantly mixed, and hinting a great many very agreeable flatteries.
Laura Grey at length took courage, or panic, which often leads in the same direction, and rising, said quietly, but a little peremptorily: "I am going now, Ethel."
There was, of course, nothing for it but to submit. I confess I was angry. But it would certainly not have been dignified to show my resentment in Mr. Marston's presence. I therefore acquiesced with careless good-humour. The stranger bid us a reluctant good-night, and Laura shut down the window, and drew the little bolt across the window-sash, with, as it seemed to me, a rather inconsistent parade of suspicion. With this ungracious dismissal he went away in high good-humour, notwithstanding.
"Why need we leave the drawing-room so very early?" said I, in a pet.
"We need not go now, as that man is gone," she said, and quickly closed the window-shutters, and drew the curtains.
Laura, when she had made these arrangements, laid her hand on my shoulder, and looked with great affection and anxiety in my face.
"You are vexed, darling, because I got rid of that person."
"No," said I; "but I'm vexed because you got rid of him rudely."
"I should have prevented his staying at the window for a single minute, if I had been quite sure he is the person I suppose. If he is—oh! how I wish he were a thousand miles away!"
"I don't think you would be quite so hard upon him, if he had divided his conversation a little more equally," I said with the bluntness of vexation.