Nance laughed.
"You're dreaming, Clo! How could you behave unfairly?"
"Suppose some one were to tell you that I had?"
"I shouldn't believe, that's all."
"If I were to tell you?" Clodagh's fingers tightened on the reins.
"If you were to tell me that," Nance said, very slowly, "I think it would spoil everything in the world. I believe so—so dreadfully in you. But why talk about it, when it's nonsense?" She shook off the momentary shadow that had fallen between them. "I hate 'ifs,' unless they're very happy ones."
So Clodagh struggled no more with her conscience during the drive along the shady Buckinghamshire roads. Yielding to the spell of Nance's voice, she lulled the knowledge of impending difficulties and opened her ears to the tale of her sister's experiences—of her friends, her acquaintances, her pleasures, her occupations—all poured forth with a perfectly ingenuous egotism that was a refreshment and delight.
Though they remained together all through the morning and afternoon, the sisters had no further opportunity of a tête-à-tête. Immediately on their arrival at Tuffnell, Lady Diana had made Nance welcome and had introduced her to her fellow-guests; and the remainder of the day had been spent, first in tennis and croquet, later in a long coach drive, which included a call upon some neighbours of the Tuffnells. Almost immediately after dinner, however, Clodagh had pleaded that Nance was tired, and had borne her off to her own room. There she dismissed Simonetta, and, closing the door, drew forward two chairs to the open window.
"Now!" she said—"at last! What do you think of Tuffnell—and of everybody?" She sank into one of the chairs with a little sigh.
But Nance, instead of answering, tip-toed across the room; and, bending over the back of her chair, gave her a long, impulsive kiss.