An almost mocking smile formed about Marie’s mouth.
“Yes, Lili,” she answered with an underlying sadness, which however was lost upon Lili, who heard only the laughing banter of her tone, “it’s very terrible! You care for Georges, and Georges cares for you, and all the world is against you—mamma, and Madame Eekhof, and everybody, eh? ’Tis sad, very sad, isn’t it? And I can quite understand how little hope you have that it will ever be otherwise! How sad, how unfortunate it is, to be sure!”
“Oh, Marie! how can you talk like that when you know—when you know it pains me?”
“Yes; I am cruel, eh?” Marie resumed, but her smile grew gentler. “Come, Lili, do cease crying now, and give me a kiss; forgive me for what I said. Shall I have another try, and see if I can induce mamma to change her mind?”
“Oh, do, there’s a good soul! Mamma will consent if you ask her.”
“Yes; no one refuses me, eh? With me all goes smoothly. ’Tis only against you that everybody’s hand is raised. Poor, poor child!”
Lili laughed between her tears as she looked at Marie.
“Marie, how droll you are when you sermonize like that! It makes me laugh, really.”
“All right, sissy, you laugh away; let us laugh as long as we may. Well, good-bye; put your hair straight a little; I am going to mamma.”
She nodded to Lili and left the room, envying her sister who could freely express what she felt, and as she was going down the stairs she smiled a little sad smile when she thought of Lili’s grief and despair about Georges. Her sister seemed to her as a child crying for its toys; she could already see Lili’s little face, now so bitterly sorrowful, beam with gladness, as it would do when she, Marie, should return to her in half an hour.