“How tired you look, Sophy!” Eve said, as they crossed the path, where the carriages and riders and loungers had dwindled considerably within the past week. “I fancy even you begin to feel you have had enough of gadding about?”
“Yes, I have had enough, more than enough,” Sophy answered, with a little choking sob.
She could no more suppress her own feelings, bear her own troubles, and be dumb, than a child can. It was quite as much as she could do to keep herself from crying, in the broad light of summer evening and Hyde Park.
“My poor Sophy, what has happened to distress you?” Eve asked affectionately. “You and Mr. Sefton had such a long confabulation in that inner room. I really thought the crisis had come.”
“There was no crisis; there never will be. You were right. He was only fooling me. All his fine speeches, his sentimental talk—his way of holding one’s hand as if he would like to squeeze it, and was only prevented by his deep respect for one—he did squeeze it at the carriage door that night when we stayed so late at Mrs. Macpherson’s dance—it all meant nothing—less than nothing.”
“But how do you know, Sophy?” Eve asked earnestly. “He can’t have told you that he doesn’t care for you?”
“No; but he can have told me that he is in love with another woman—a low-born, ignorant creature, who can do nothing but sing and strut about the stage in the boldest, horridest way, showing her lace petticoats and her legs,” said Sophy, disgustedly, forgetting how she had admired Signora Vivanti.
“Do you mean the singer at the Apollo?” asked Eve.
“Yes, Signora Vivanti. He is in love with her, if you please, and she has refused him.”
Eve remembered her husband’s explanation of Lisa’s letter.